


In Shades of Black and White

by LuminousPie



Category: Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins Movies), The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 82,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28924392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminousPie/pseuds/LuminousPie
Summary: Silence of the Lambs if it were set in the world of The X-Files.
Relationships: Dana Scully/Jack Willis, Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 72
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a scene for scene rehash of Silence of the Lambs. While it does closely follow the events of the book and movie I have tried to incorporate a lot of original stuff into this (including original dialogue). I’ve also expanded scenes, changed existing scenes to fit other characters and moved things around in terms of who says what. This also has sex in it. A fair bit actually (but only between Mulder and Scully. I've labelled this fic as Scully/other but it's dealt with very quickly and there are no sex scenes between Scully and Willis).
> 
> Secondly some of the characters in Silence of the Lambs have ended up on the cutting room floor. There’s no need for someone like Jack Crawford when we have Walter Skinner and Reggie Purdue to fill the space of the boss. A lot of Crawford's dialogue is given to Mulder. Ardelia Mapp has also gone, she's been replaced by Monica Reyes.
> 
> One last thing: Scully is in the Clarice position but she is not Clarice. Mulder is in the Will Graham position but he is not Will Graham barring a few things born out of necessity (such as having caught Lector and being stabbed by him because I needed a logical way to bring him into the story and it just worked). They are still Mulder and Scully, still incorporate their own backstories and personality traits (Scully is in a relationship with Jack Willis at the start, is still a medical doctor etc and Mulder was married to Diana though they are very much separated, and she isn't in this story, and he’s still very much into his UFOs and a psychologist). I tried to fit Mulder and Scully as organically as I could into Silence of the Lambs.
> 
> Only you can tell me if it works. Happy reading!

1990

It was cold out and she could feel the bitterness in her bones even as she ran hard and the sweat poured. The weather was definitely starting to take a turn for the worse, winter stubbornly refusing to give way to spring, and she could easily believe the weather forecasts of another bout of snow. The stubborn grey sky above looked heavy and ready to punish.

It was a real shame. Even as the budding trees around her pushed the last of the decaying browns out of the way, an endless cycle of death and rebirth, and the hazy morning mist made way for brighter morns, Agent Trainee Dana Scully knew that she wouldn’t be able to take advantage of the outdoor facilities at Quantico for much longer. In a day or two snow would probably settle in and she’d have to use the indoor gym. 

She hated the gym. It was full of flexing men trying to show off and intimidate the female recruits, trying to prove their virility. It was as pathetic as it was obnoxious. In this day and age it was positively antediluvian. Tom Colton was the worst of the damn lot. Marty Neal wasn’t far behind. 

Still, it made her and her friends laugh at least. The true tragedy of machismo was that, subconsciously, they never thought they were man enough. She didn’t need to show off with physicality, though she could more than handle herself. No, she had more than enough going on upstairs academically and that was what would get her noticed. It already had.

Her breath caught through exhaustion as she pounded through the woods, her feet heavy, the blood rushing loud in her ears, the birds watching her suspiciously while they chatted loudly amongst themselves, but the relentless need to finish her task compelled her forward and to the end of the course. She would beat this. She would beat her old time. She knew she must otherwise it was a wasted morning.

Eventually she came to a steep muddy incline with different levels of gradient. It looked pretty innocuous to the untrained eye but she knew the slope was hiding a dark secret, a secret that meant traversing up a cruel 40 degree slope towards the top. She dealt with the first part with relative ease, digging her running shoes into the mud for extra grip, and then grabbed the thick wet rope that burnt her cold hands as she pulled herself upwards. A fresh round of sweat seeped from every pore, and she lost her footing once or twice, but she attacked it and made it to the top with a triumphant smile and a clap of her hands and carried on. She would deal with the aches and left over vertigo later.

It was another hundred metres or so until the next obstacle, a rope climb in the shape of a pyramid, that she didn’t even think to skirt around. There would be no cutting corners for Dana Katherine Scully. Even if this place killed her she would go down swinging.

She did, however, allow herself to breathe a little better, taking in deeper lungfuls of air rather than the shallow puffs she’d been managing on. As she watched the cloud in front of her, her scientifically minded brain went through the processes involved in causing her breath to appear in liquid form before her eyes. The dew point. She could recite it verbatim from the textbook: ‘The dew point is the temperature to which air must be cooled to become saturated with water vapour. When air is cooled beyond dew point water vapour turns to liquid form, the physical process known as condensation. It is this liquid form of your breath, minuscule droplets of water, that creates the fleeting, misty cloud we see when breathing in cold weather.’

The likes of Tom Colton couldn’t do that!

She was over the pyramid before she even knew it, rolling over the top with a grunt, and took a fork in the road that would eventually loop her back around to the almost brutalist architecture of Quantico’s giant military base. It was the wetter run of the two but she welcomed the cooling splashes of water as they cascaded up her legs. She was running with such commitment that she idly thought that in any other part of the world she’d look like she was being chased by a predator of some kind, being stalked like prey. Under those circumstances convention dictated that she should be afraid, instead she felt powerful and, as it was, she was probably in one of the safest places she knew of. She ignored the snaps of twigs and the rising flights of birds that moved as if frightened by something though. She wouldn’t let her mind play tricks.

The closer she got to the main concourse the more noisy it became. Her well trained ear could make out gun fire from the outdoor range, the squeal of tires on the driving course in the distance, the stomp of footfall as people ran in organised groups nearby complete with loud chatter and laughter. She could even hear a helicopter somewhere: probably the hostage negotiation team in training.

It was great and she enjoyed it, it was music to her ears, though to lose the relative peace and quiet of the inner forest was somewhat disappointing. She’d always enjoyed the woods as they brought back fond memories of hunting and foraging with her father and brothers. A much simpler time.

The woods opened out to wide green lawns and she sighed as the real world wrapped its arms around her and pulled her towards more mundane matters. She slowed to a stop, pulled her stop watch out and ended her run as soon as she spotted Jack Willis in the distance perched on a picnic table, his feet on the seat. With any other man it would make them look boyish but Jack could never relax and always looked much older than his 34 years. It was a bad joke amongst the faculty and student body that he would either burn out and eat a bullet from his own gun or have a stroke.

He smiled when he saw her, got up and approached, attempted to offer her his overcoat, a gentlemanly gesture to keep her warm but she shook her head, she didn’t need it. She would be warm from her run for a while yet, besides she liked to warm down naturally, not prolong it. 

Next he attempted to awkwardly kiss her on the cheek so she moved a little out of his reach and mumbled, “Not here.” He was being a little too showy for her liking. If people found out about their relationship her professional reputation would be in tatters. She wanted to earn a reputation, not be given one.

It was just as well she moved as soon twenty or so people came spilling out of one of the buildings nearby and she blushed even though she knew they couldn’t possibly have seen. As she watched them she was struck by the fact that she was the only one heading inwards, everyone else was rushing out. It reminded her of a little boat heading out against the tide. She wasn’t quite sure of the exact metaphor but was sure Missy would pick out the chicken shit from the haystack.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, exhaustion strong in her tone. “I thought you were teaching all day?” She began stretching in the air, pushing her hands up towards the cloudy grey abyss above, to warm down.

“Is that how you greet me now? No hello? No kiss?” He smiled thinly when he saw her arched eyebrow in response and sighed in defeat, “I saw you head out here from my office window so I thought I’d time you.” He pulled his own stop watch out and showed her his time. It was inaccurate, slower than her own, but knowing he’d insist his was right she nodded. Jack was a man that always had to be right, always had to have the last word. It was why she didn’t see any potential with him. “That and I like to watch you run.” He smirked, looking down at her grey tracksuit covered legs.

She took his offered bottle of water gladly and gulped it down, not really in the mood for his flirting. She’d like a nice hot shower right about now. She handed back the empty bottle and began walking away. “Thanks, I should head back up to the dorms, I have a test I need to revise for.”

He was put out, incredulous, “That’s it?”

Pausing she turned to look at him. She liked Jack, she really did, they’d had some good times, hung out at dive bars with slanted pool tables, exchanged gifts at the appropriate time (a watch for him, a new gun holster for her) and even took trips away when time and schedules permitted. She also liked her space. He knew that. He appreciated that. Why was he acting differently now? “I don’t know, is there something else?”

He scratched his head, something was on his mind. “I thought you might want some company.”

“I do, it’s just…” Just what? Was she making excuses? “It’s just I’m a little busy right now.” She felt like she was making excuses but it was the truth. Between lectures, personal development, the gun range, research, essays, fitness, applications for future training courses and trying to remember to sleep and eat it was exhausting. She didn’t have time to hang out, not really. Besides even when they were together it was just stolen moments, really little more than a casual arrangement between two people. Feelings had never come into it. It suited them well. Or at least it had. She wondered who would be the one to break it off first. “Maybe at the weekend?” It was all she could offer.

“I’m going to hold you to that.” He was pining for something. Perhaps just to talk. She’d indulge him a few minutes here at least, she wasn't cruel or cold. “I have a case though so…” he shrugged.

“Anything interesting?” It was all interesting to him. He lived his cases. She liked intensity but his was the wrong kind, his was unhealthy. Even on their trips away he talked about his cases. She picked up her exercises again while he talked.

“No… well yes actually but it’s not something I want to talk about right now. It’s a series of bank robberies…” his voice trailed off as he became lost in his own thoughts. “A real head scratcher…”

In between her leg stretches and lunges, thrown in for good measure, she regarded him more softly and stood fully. She wasn’t unsympathetic, if he was really hurting she’d accommodate him and offer her shoulder as a sponge to his frustrations. “Do you want to go for a drink?”

He opened his mouth to talk but before he could say anything he spotted someone running towards her, calling her name and waving a memo. A fresh faced young man of about 23, still had his dimples, a baby. He was so young looking that even at 26 she felt ancient standing in his vicinity. Jack stepped aside and it was at that point she realised that they weren’t even standing that close. Together but apart. Their lives going in very different directions. Now that was a metaphor she keenly understood. She knew it would be down to her. She just needed to find a when.

“Dana Scully?” he panted, he’d only come from the administration block in front of them, she’d watched him, and he looked like he’d ran 10 miles. She nodded and he quickly thrust a piece of paper into her outstretched hand. “Assistant Director Skinner wants to see you in his office asap.” And with that he was off again, waving another memo at someone else. He rather reminded her of a Roman messenger, a cursus publicus, relaying his messages and bouncing between fortifications without a care in the world.

She looked at the scrawled message. It didn’t have any other information on it outside of what the messenger had just told her. She didn’t even know an AD Skinner, never mind know where his office was. The pit of her stomach faded out from underneath her and she suddenly felt apprehensive.

She looked to Jack and he didn’t disappoint. He said, “Bald guy, wears glasses, looks like Mel Cooley. You’ll find him on the fourth floor, the same building as the BSU and Violent Crimes.” He took the memo from her and frowned. “Doesn’t say why he wants to see you.”

She had not one fathom of an idea though she hoped it had something to do with her request to go straight into teaching after she graduated the academy. “What’s he like?” She wanted to be prepared for every eventuality. She’d met some pretty militaristic instructors in her time here and didn’t want to be on the back foot if he turned out the same.

“Walter?” He handed back the piece of paper and a wisp of a fond smile appeared. “Career AD, can be very firm but essentially one of the good guys.”

She thanked him and, because nobody else was around, allowed him to awkwardly kiss her on the lips goodbye. They arranged to meet later on but she already knew she’d find an excuse to cancel. She doubted he’d be too hurt by it though, he’d cancelled on her enough times in the past for both serious and spurious reasons. It was just the way things were between them. Casual. It wasn’t an issue and they didn’t argue. It was certainly more refreshing than her last relationship, that had been nothing but stifling.

She took one last glance back as she retreated, as she quickly made her way towards the Behavioural Science Unit building. Jack’s own retreating form looked forlorn, the weight of the world on his shoulders. She felt for him and yet… and yet she needed more. She needed to relax. 

The worst thing was that she didn’t think she’d miss him.

She sighed and slipped inside the building.


	2. Chapter 2

While she sometimes agonised over her decisions there weren’t many things in life she actually regretted, once made up her mind she owned her decisions and stood by her choices. Right now, however, she was regretting not nipping back to her dorm room for a change of clothes and a quick shower. A dirty grey tracksuit and taped fingers hadn’t adhered her to the elevator full of too tall men that had loomed large over her, not that she’d been fazed at all by them, so it certainly wouldn’t be suitable attire for a meeting with an AD.

She wasn’t one to overly fuss with her appearance, though she was a confident woman and celebrated that fact, liked to dress up on occasion too, but when she caught her reflection in the glass walls of the vestibule to AD Skinner's office she balked. She looked like a wreck and knew she must stink, she still had gunpowder residue on her hands. It didn’t help that, facially at least, the mirror image of herself was sat behind her desk with a smirk on her face and wearing a beautifully tailored blue suit. It was like looking at a before and after picture from a brawl.

She just about had time to retie her hair, to flatten the frizz and wipe the muddy smear from under her left eye before she was called in, via the secretary.

“You wanted to see me sir?” She asked nervously and then apologised for her attire, “I’m sorry, I didn’t have a chance to dress more appropriately.”

He waved it away as he stood to greet her with a friendly handshake. “Don’t worry about it. I know this was short notice. I pulled you off the range…”

“The assault course…” she corrected.

“Right.” He waved that away too, he didn’t care. “Take a seat.”

She wasn’t sure whether to take a seat at the highly polished conference table (with its photo of George H. W. Bush looming large nearby) where he had loads of files laid out or at the desk, where he had something altogether more alluring before him. Eventually she chose the desk, drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and it seemed to be the right decision as he smiled at her and gave her a polite nod.

Walter Skinner was not quite the caricature of Mel Cooley that Jack had insisted upon, though it was close. Around 40, 6’1 and greying on the hair he had left around the sides, he was strongly built, impressive, and his countenance no nonsense, though he definitely seemed friendly enough and she could tell he was softening around the edges already. If he wasn’t so tired looking she’d consider him handsome, if not her type.

He sat quietly reading a file, not looking at her, for the longest time. When he looked up and said, “Dana Katherine Scully, graduated at the top of your class at Stanford Medical school. You’re a little way from medical school are you not?” 

It dawned on her that he was looking at her file, scouring it for pieces of useful information. Picking her life and career apart. As if she wasn’t nervous enough. “Yes Sir,” she finally answered. She cleared her throat and looked around nervously, wondering where this was going. “I felt that the FBI was a place I could distinguish myself.”

“And is it?” he asked over the top of his round glasses.

“Yes.” She was confident in her responses. If she could justify herself to her father she could do it with this man. “I’m looking forward to proving myself.”

“Good, it says here that you were recruited by us, a little unusual but not unheard of.” Before she thought of an answer he said, “The FBI is a big commitment, I hope you’re up to it.” 

She nodded. She was absolutely. She finally felt at home somewhere. Her conversation with Melissa this past Christmas had put her mind at rest on that front. Med school had been her dream since she was 13, since her Sunday School teacher had been murdered on his front lawn and she’d felt powerless to help, and while it hadn’t worked out she still wanted to help people in a crisis, she still wanted to be in a position that meant she could do something practical about the horrors and evil of the world.

He put the file down and smiled, he seemed happy with her responses at least. “I spoke to your instructors this morning, to Nancy Spiller and Jack Willis especially, both were complimentary…” A playful smile suddenly cracking his features as he joked, “or as complimentary as Nancy Spiller can be.”

She desperately wanted to laugh, to tell him about the nickname her class had come up with for her, The Iron Maiden, instead she caught her laugh on an awkward fake cough hidden behind her hand and eventually smiled before answering, “They haven’t issued us with any reports or test scores yet.” It was frustrating. Already 9 weeks into her 20 week programme and she didn’t know where she stood, or needed to improve. She worried out loud, “I just hope I’m meeting expectations.”

He grinned at her anxious air, “You’re in the top quarter of your class and pushing towards being at the very top, you can calm down.”

She did and she couldn’t help the audible sigh of relief, she was proud of herself. They settled into various bits of small talk regarding the things she was studying, where she hoped to end up, if she was coping with the long hours and early starts. She was genuinely happy to have someone showing some interest in her, even if she was still wondering why she was here. 

She wondered if it had anything to do with the detritus on his desk. She used her time in front of it to have a thorough examination. It was intriguing for sure but it was also a horror show. Victim profiles, all women, a timeline, notes with plenty of question marks scribbled all over it, a tabloid with the gratuitous headline ‘BILL SKINS FIFTH” emblazoned across it. 5 women so far.

Did they want her medical expertise for something?

It didn’t make sense. She knew about the case of course, had read about it in the more upmarket papers, and had heard people chatting about it in various canteens around the base, but beyond that she knew nothing. She’d love to get hands on the forensics. It would be great to study a case in progress rather than the ones they made up for training purposes or the old case that keenly supplied all the answers.

He caught her looking at his work and chewed his lip. Something was on his mind, though he didn’t elaborate further on it. “I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here?”

“Yes Sir.”

“A job’s come up and your name was mentioned a few times for it.”

“A job?” She was nervous again. He’d put her at ease with his genial chat, now she was afraid again. Of course she was flattered too. A chance to do a real job while still in training was a coveted opportunity and so far, out of her class, only Marty Neal had been given a chance.

“Not really a job, more an interesting errand.”

“Oh?” Curiouser and curiouser. She wondered if the deep frown on her features would scar her.

“We're trying to interview all of the serial killers now in custody, for a psychobehavioral profile. Could be a big help in unsolved cases. Most of them have been happy to talk to us.” He looked up at the ceiling and she knew he was sorting through a lot of bullshit with these criminals. It was only confirmed when he said. “They have a compulsion to boast, tell tall tales and own up to crimes they couldn’t possibly have done…” It was his turn to sigh heavily and he waved an absentminded hand around. “It’s taking a while. You know how it is.”

She did not. She’d done interviews before, she’d spoken to pretend murderers, had watched videos of Agents dealing with the worst society had to offer, but she was no psychologist and while she could analyse a suspect, speak about their behaviours on a surface level, her expertise wasn’t Behavioural Sciences and working out why people acted in certain ways. It was forensics. If he wanted an analysis of chemical imbalances and medical issues then she was completely confident. Besides, the FBI had a whole building of trained agents, trained psychologists and psychiatrists who could do it on a deeper level, that they were thinking of her was odd. Something felt off here.

She let him know. “I’m flattered, even grateful for the opportunity, but I’m wondering…”

“...Why you?” He interrupted. She nodded so he elaborated, after looking like he was thinking it over again, “because we need extra people on this but really you have the necessary credentials for an offender who refuses to speak to us.”

That piqued her interest, finally. “Who?”

He sat up straighter in his swivel chair and adjusted his ugly Formica brown tie, “Do you scare easily?”

It was an odd question, one she didn’t really have to think about, but odd all the same. “Not yet.” She’d certainly seen some gory things, had experienced a few horrors herself, but nothing that had lingered for too long.

Skinner regarded her evenly. Pressed his fingers to another, thin, folder, one he hadn’t opened yet. “I want you to pay this particular offender a visit tomorrow, he’s in the Baltimore State Hospital, a doctor. We thought as a fellow physician you might be able to appeal to his more professional side and get him to talk.”

Ok, that made some sense at least. She could do that. She was certainly capable of talking to medical professionals, she’d been doing it for years. She didn’t know too many doctors who were serial killers however, but she was up for the challenge. “The subject?”

Skinner stared at her, his face emotionless as he studied her. “The psychiatrist Dr Hannibal Lecter.”

She suddenly went very still and, on an air of disbelief, gasped out, “The cannibal.” They wanted her to interview Dr. Hannibal Lecter? A serial murderer notorious for consuming his victims. A renowned Baltimore forensic psychiatrist whose reputation had been reduced to tabloid fodder but a man who still had a fearsome reputation. She hoped there were good bars on his cell. She had no desire to be anyone’s midday snack.

She tried to think of what she knew about the case, what she’d read, and the damage caused by his reign of terror. She felt queasy when she thought of a man happily tucking into someone’s leg and a finely dressed dinner table with all the accompaniments laid out for added flavour. God, it was the stuff of nightmares.

She thought quickly of a better response, “And he won’t speak to Bill Patterson?” The chief profiler at the BSU. It was the BSU that had done the profile that had led to Lecter. “Or anyone else in the BSU?”

Skinner shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “He’s not the greatest fan of SSA. Patterson and other agents on the case have refused the assignment point blank.”

“Agent Mulder?” She knew of him, about his reputation and she knew he’d helped capture Lecter. From what she could recall, from what she remembered about the tabloids at the time, Lecter had stabbed him pretty badly. It was no wonder he didn’t want any involvement now.

“You’ve heard of Agent Mulder?” It didn’t seem to surprise him.

She couldn’t be sure but Skinner also looked worried about something, there was concern in his eyes at the mention of Mulder. “Yes Sir, of course, by reputation.” They read his profiles in class, the instructor for serial crime, a woman named Leslie Manion was always glowing about Mulder’s work, and she’d read his monographs in the academy library, he’d been responsible for catching some of the most notorious serial killers of the last few years: Monty Props, Luther Lee Boggs, John Lee Roche, Francis Dolarhyde to name but a few. “He’s an Oxford educated psychologist, generally thought of as the best analyst in the violent crimes section.” He had a nickname too, Spooky, for his ability to see beyond the evidence put in front of him, to make leaps of logic that others could only dream of, though she sensed the tone of the room and didn’t bring it up.

“Good,” Skinner said, but wouldn’t expand on why it was good she knew about Mulder. He pushed the file under his fingertips towards her but didn’t quite release it and he went back to talking about Lecter. “Hopefully Lector will talk to you but if not… well so be it. I have to be able to say we tried at least…” He set his jaw and finally let go of the file. “Lecter is a brilliant psychiatrist, he knows every trick in the book.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out an ID wallet and showed it to her. “This is for you, it lasts a week, I had to speak to the justice department to get you special clearance so don’t let me down Agent.”

She nodded, rose from her chair and took it gingerly, like it suddenly might go up in flames and not be real. She fingered the gold crest inside the soft leather casing and allowed herself a smile. This is what she was fighting for. Seeing it writ large felt like a dream come true. He gestured to the file and she took that too.

“That’s a dossier on him along with a copy of our BSU questionnaire. If he won’t talk to you, if he won’t open up, then I want straight reporting, a presentation of facts and facts alone. Tell it like it is and don’t go into flights of fancy about his hopes and dreams and what his star sign bullshits this week.” He smiled again, for the first time in a while, which put her at ease again. “I want to know how he’s looking, what does his cell look like, is he writing anything, drawing, who his visitors are, what he eats and drinks.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I expect your report on my desk on Friday morning, no later than 9, that gives you three full days Agent Scully.”

“Yes Sir.” She wondered why there was so much urgency over this. If it was just a basic questionnaire then what was the rush? She clutched the file tightly, was there perhaps more to this assignment that he wasn’t telling her. “If you’ll permit me a question Sir, but why the urgency? Lecter's been in prison for a number of years now. Is there some connection between him and Buffalo Bill maybe?” She dared a look at the desk again, at the violence doled out on the poor victims. She couldn’t stare too long. It felt like a further dehumanisation.

“I wish there were,” he sighed. Why did he look like there was? “Now, I want your full attention, Scully.” She nodded. “Be very careful with Hannibal Lecter. Dr Chilton will meet you at the hospital and go over the physical procedures of the visit, I strongly advise you not to deviate from them for any reason whatsoever. And you're to tell him nothing personal. Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head. Just do your job, but never forget what he is.”

She wasn’t frightened by Lecter but that didn’t stop her being perturbed. “Which is?”

Matter of factly he replied, “He’s a psychopath.” He intimate that the meeting was over and she went to leave but not before he announced. “Do a good job here Scully and you’ll go far, the Director himself is interested in your report.” He added as a cautious aside, however, “If I think it’s good enough.” 

He reminded her of the deadline and she left ready to take on the world, feeling a little apprehensive but buoyed by the fact she’d been given this opportunity.


	3. Chapter 3

She’d spent the last two hours going over her meeting with Skinner. Not entirely convinced, now more than ever, that this was just about speaking to Lecter. Something about the whole thing seemed… off. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it was suspicious. She wasn’t entirely persuaded that her being chosen had anything to do with her being a doctor either.

She worried it had something to do with her being a woman. Did they think she’d appeal to Lecter’s other, basic, urges? Was this a purely sexist play rather than an academic one? A man who’d been locked up for years without many visitors, least of all female visitors, was a dangerous man indeed and while she hoped they were looking at her for her abilities, her forensic background, nothing was surprising her at the moment.

It didn’t help her knowing, as she did, that The FBI was still very much a boys club, still very much a male dominated organisation that, while making strides to improve and recruit more women, was still regarded as an old dinosaur. She was here to change the world but that didn’t mean the world was ready to be changed. She also knew she could be used by people at the top wanting advancement. She had hoped any manoeuvring would be more transparent.

She also wondered if she was being set up to fail. Was this a test, was it the Bureau’s version of the Kobayashi Maru, a training exercise designed to test the character of their recruits in a no-win scenario? Was putting her in front of a real psychopath an examination of her and her abilities as a future Agent? Was she supposed to redefine some problem she wasn’t seeing right now, even in all the notes she had spread out in front of her on her dorm bed? Perhaps it was a measure of her performance and how she managed an insurmountable scenario under pressure.

The Kobayashi Maru was entirely fictional of course. However the Bureau weren’t above giving them tests not designed to win but designed to make them face their fears, come up with multiple solutions and accept that not everything was a winnable endeavour.

She put her head in her hands feeling defeated, scrunched her drying hair in frustration. She’d finally managed to fit in a shower and a change of clothes but they hadn’t helped to relax.

Letting out a loud groan she went back to her notes. She’d been reading up on Hannibal Lecter: his crimes, Agent Mulder’s reports on the man, witness statements and forensic reports. It was truly eye opening even if a lot of the information in the stuff she’d been given had been blacked out and made confidential, huge swathes of it actually. She sure would love the master copy of this file.

She’d also read the questionnaire she was supposed to administer. It was almost laughable and she was determined to put some notes in her report suggesting some improvements. It wasn’t under the remit of her assignment but if this really was a test she wanted to cover all the bases.

The door opened and she looked up and smiled widely at the young woman grinning down at her. Monica Reyes, 27, fit, an ex New Orleans patrol officer, an eternal optimist with a refreshingly sunny disposition, but a hardball when it came to social justice. They’d been firm friends since their induction day and now they shared a dorm.  
Reyes threw a boxed sandwich and a bottle of water down on the bed and it landed just next to her files. Her stomach growled loudly and they both laughed as she tore it open.  
“You missed lunch,” Reyes said, coming to sit at the end of the bed. “Again.”

She could only nod around a bobbled mouthful of sandwich, sandwich she’d taken such a big bite of it threatened to fall out and she had to push it in around an embarrassed look. “Sorry, I was called into a meeting.”

Reyes was already perusing the files on Lecter. She held it up in awe. “Hannibal the Cannibal, seriously?”

“Uh huh.” She wasn’t entirely sure how much she was allowed to reveal, if she was allowed to talk about it at all. Would other agents get jealous if they found out she was doing real work? Probably. “I have to go and interview him.”

Mouth agape Reyes was giddy, “No fucking way!”

She nodded, took another bite of dry bread and cheap ham, and said, “Yeah as part of the Behavioural Interview Program, I’m heading up there tonight and interviewing him in the morning.”

The other woman practically squealed. “Oh my god Dana, how the hell did you get that?”

“I’m still trying to work that one out,” she admitted truthfully. She allowed her friend’s enthusiasm to wash over her though and she finally managed to feel a little excited by the whole thing. Even if this was a test it was still the real deal, still a real assignment with a real subject. She took out her new badge, something she hadn’t been able to put down since AD Skinner had given it to her, from her dressing gown pocket and opened it up. “I have a badge and everything.”

Reyes snatched it gleefully, almost bouncing on the bed. “This is so cool.” She played with it for a bit, stood up and practised drawing it from her pocket and presenting it in front of the mirror. “I’m so happy for you…” she turned her head and grinned at Scully, “jealous of course, but this is an excellent opportunity. Imagine all the doors it could open.”

She was imagining all the ones it could slam shut too. “Well it only lasts a week so I can’t get too excited.”

Reyes handed it back reluctantly and sat again, grabbed a folder and put it on her lap, reading as she spoke. “Still, it’s quite the coup. Tom Colton will have a fit when he finds out.”

Scully grimaced. She wanted to be cautious, at least until after her interview was over. “I’d rather we kept this between ourselves for now.”

Reyes agreed. “But I want to be the one to tell that worm Colton.”

“Deal!”

The both laughed before Reyes said. “Pretty gruesome stuff in this Lecter file.”

She bit into her lunch again and crossed her legs underneath her. “Tell me about it, you know he killed one of his victims because he disliked the way he was playing the flute during a performance with the Baltimore Philharmonic.”

“God…” she put the folder aside. “Attempting to understand these people, these men, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Me neither.” And that was the damn truth of the matter. She had no idea how she was going to approach this interview. “I worry I’m out of my depth.” She put her head in her hands again and felt Reyes patting her head sympathetically. “I mean it’s Lecter…”

“You’ll do fine. Even if you don’t you can always chalk it up to experience, use it as a learning exercise. You’ve been a recruit for all of 9 weeks Dana, I don’t think anyone is expecting a thesis on Lecter, just file a report with as much truth in it as possible.”

She looked up, not knowing what to say. Feeling like crap. Reyes was right. Skinner was right: even if Lecter didn’t corporate it wasn’t the end of the world. She would still have her field report and she would still have something to hand in once she’d collated her thoughts and notes into something coherent, even if that was just a treatise on prison furniture.

“Have you thought about speaking to Agent Mulder?” Reyes said while holding up one of his reports, a rather thick tome. “After all, who knows more about Lecter than the man who put him away?”

It was the best idea she’d heard all day.


	4. Chapter 4

The violent crimes section wasn’t quite as intimidating as Skinner’s office had been but it was still making her nervous. Not quite in the basement like the BSU, it was still quite hidden away, as if the crimes they had to deal with were too dreadful for polite eyes. As if evil could be contained by the four walls of the large space and by the 30 or so agents currently in here.

As she walked between the desks she noted it was exceptionally busy to the point of chaos, packed with harassed looking agents and more paperwork than she thought humanly possible. She’d thought the pathology reports she had to do were exhaustive but these heaps were positively mountainous.

She attempted to ask one of the agents, a blond woman with her head down, where she could find Mulder but she just grunted in reply and pointed towards an office at the far end of the room. Scully hoped this wouldn’t take long, she wanted to get on the road and into her motel, wanted out of this place, it was getting late and this place was depressing.

There were two glass walled offices she noticed as she reached her destination. One belonging to Section Chief Perdue which was neat and tidy and clean to the point she could probably make microchips in there and the other, belonging to Agent Mulder, was pure mayhem. She knew which she’d rather go in and it wasn’t Mulder’s.

The door was open so she went in and put her bag down while taking in the mess. The office was crammed to the point of bursting with books, overflowing filing cabinets, weird religious charms and historical trinkets, including what looked like a miniature skeleton made of real bone, and a rather tacky looking UFO poster with the words ‘I want to believe’ written on it behind his desk. Idly she moved aside a book on the occult and flipped the pages of a book on wiccan practises underneath and mused to herself that he’d be perfect for Melissa. Melissa was single now and looking, was he?

There was a large green noticeboard to the right of his desk that covered most of the wall. It was like a mood-board for the Buffalo Bill case with highlighted words ‘Skins his victims, signature?’, ‘Why?’ ‘Not cannibalism’, ‘M.O?’ on it along with pictures of the victims to one side, women with the skin of their arms, their torsos, a leg, skilfully removed. It was awful and she had to look away. Not because she was afraid of such sights, she was a doctor after all, but because she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to inflict that level of violence on another person. It was disproportionately grotesque.

“Can I help you?”

She jumped out of her skin at the aggrieved voice and dropped the books. “Jesus, you frightened me.” She turned to face him, hand over her heart, and was pleasantly surprised by what she saw. Young, a lot younger than she’d assumed (he was barely 30 and she’d always thought of him as much older), pouty, tall, fashionable haircut and attire, with a lean athletic body, she surmised he probably ran and swam to keep fit like her. He was world weary, his eyes stained by grief, but handsome, boyish, at the same time and while a few features might not have looked good on anyone else they all seemed to suit him rather well. 

Her heart was aflutter for more reasons than one. She actually found herself blushing, the girlish indulgence annoying her though. “Agent Mulder?”

He nodded. She was staring and he wanted to roll his eyes but instead he went to pick up his stuff, she tried to help but he batted her away. He hated it when people invited themselves into his office and touched his stuff, this was his private space, his safe place, his sanctuary. This was a place they couldn’t call him weird and spooky, couldn’t take the piss out of him, say he was as crazy as the serial killers he hunted, or jibe him about his beliefs. This was a place he could be himself. This was a place he could make plans for the future.

“And you are?” he asked accusingly, putting the books back while she dithered. He knew he should’ve locked his door. He went to sit at his desk and realised that social convention probably dictated that he should offer her somewhere to sit first so he quickly cleared a chair for her, it was wonky but it would have to do.

“Agent….” no that wasn’t right, despite her new week long credential. “Agent Trainee Dana Scully.” She sat and just about managed not to fall off her seat. One of the legs was at least two inches shorter than the other. He didn’t apologise and she didn’t expect one, it was weirdly comforting. “I wanted to speak with you for a moment about Dr Hannibal Lecter, if you’re not busy?”

Ah, he thought, so this was who they had interviewing Lecter was it. He softened and made a mental note to look her up and ask around. She must be someone with some qualifications if she’d been picked out of the pile. “And what can I do for you?”

Tucking her long hair behind her ear and straightening her pant suit of imaginary wrinkles she thought the question over. She had intended to ask him about his experiences with Lecter, how he’d caught him, perhaps ask if he had any insights or anecdotes for her but, as she watched him, at the uncomfortable way he sat with a hand on his stomach, as if he was still in immense pain from something, she had a change of heart. She really shouldn’t be here at all, it felt almost cruel. She should be going in dry to make up her own mind.

She asked him about the questionnaire instead. “I was hoping that you’d be able to help me with this questionnaire.” She took it out of her bag and offered it to him. He didn’t take it so she sheepishly tucked it away again after a long moment of it hanging limply in the air. “Um, I was hoping you’d have some insights into it and help me out with how I’m supposed to administer it.”

He chuckled. That useless questionnaire was not the reason she was here. If there was one thing he was good at it was reading other people. It also wasn’t worth the paper it was written on, Lecter would say so too. It was a corporate questionnaire designed by a sociologist who had no experience with real criminals. It was about as useless as the DSM with its oversimplification, it’s failure to take in all the facts and its quick to label definitions. He’d never administered one in his life, he wouldn’t start for her. No matter how much he liked her, and he did like her. Despite himself. It was weird.

“You know if you’re going to waste my time then at least do it properly.” He smiled at her stunned expression. A woman not used to being challenged in such a way it would seem. That was ok, her scowl suited her face, though he preferred her smile.

“I…”

He picked up the highly polished red leather cricket ball next to the photo of his sister and weighed it up in his hand while he enjoyed watching her internal struggle crisscrossing her soft pale features, only highlighted by her red hair. Her turmoil at wanting to ask him about a man who’d almost gutted him juxtaposed with her need to be polite and respectful. It was a beautiful sight to see.

He dropped the ball from his right hand to his left and back a few times. He preferred baseball, he could die for baseball, but there was something about the war of cricket that he’d enjoyed at Oxford. A not so gentlemanly game. If you got hit with a baseball you could shrug it off in a minute or two. If a cricket ball hit you you’d damn well know about it for days.

Eventually he started to feel sorry for her and got up and walked over to his filing cabinet and began looking for a file on Lecter. The unabridged version that only circulated between higher ranked agents and certain people in the legal profession.

“What’s he like, Lecter I mean?” she said, finally finding her voice and overcoming her embarrassment.

“Cunning, manipulative, devious and claims he only killed rude people which is bullshit…” He hummed a little, thought about it and smiled, remembering that once they had a sort of friendship going on. “Extremely intelligent. Polite, courteous, respectful, doesn't take fools gladly,” he turned around and regarded her thoughtfully and quipped, “Well unless he wants to eat you that is.” He thought of Lecter after Lecter had stabbed him, how he’d said he was going to eat his heart. After losing his sister it was the most traumatic thing he’d suffered through. He didn’t want to revisit it but here he was accommodating a stranger, gazing at her like a fool.

She laughed nervously. “Cannibals are rare, is that why the Bureau is so keen to speak with him again?”

They wanted to speak to Lecter because he might lead them to Buffalo Bill. He didn’t mention it however. It was better she went into the interview without that knowledge. He found what he was looking for and pulled it out triumphantly. It wasn’t quite the thickest file he owned, that belonged to his research on alien abductees, but it was close. He dumped it on his desk in front of her and she picked at the 500+ page A4 tome. In that file contained everything one might want to know about Hannibal Lecter, including his own part in the tale.

Leaning against the desk and looking down at her he summated, “Cannibalism is extremely rare, outside of certain tribes and the need to survive in extreme situations I can only think of a few examples: Albert Fish, Ed Gein, more recently Lecter, Michael Woodmansee, Hadden Clark, Gary Michael Heidnik,” he paused, thinking about the last two names. “Though I’m not sure Clark counts as he only drank the blood of his 6 year old victim and Heidnik’s cannibalism couldn’t be proven.” He shrugged it off. It didn’t matter. “It’s rare anyway.”

She was fascinated she had to admit. This was her first real opportunity to talk fact to face with someone about their investigative work 1-to-1 and she was in awe. She also appreciated that he was opening up and talking to her without being patronising. He was a rare breed indeed in these halls. “I can’t imagine wanting to eat human flesh, it must be an acquired taste.”

He snorted, what was she asking him for? “Wouldn’t know, my kinks stop around odaxelagnia.”

She looked at him curiously and blushed again. Biting? Kinky indeed. “Well regardless,” she said, recovering, and daring not to talk about her own particular proclivities, “Lecter liked to consume it.”

“Lecter’s cannibalism was born out of revenge and then he became a connoisseur.” There wasn’t much else to it. The man had gotten a taste for murder and eating his victims and had tried for years to try and justify it. It was one of the many, many reasons he wasn’t talking to the man himself any more, well that and he’d given Francis Dolarhyde his address. Really Lecter was no better than any of the other delusional inmates on his hospital wing. He was done with Hannibal Lecter. Life was too short to have cannibals in it.

“Is he as monstrous as they say he is?”

Was Hannibal Lecter a monster? He’d thought about it long and hard over the years and he still didn’t know. “Some people call him a sociopath, a bogeyman, because they don’t know what else to call him.” He didn’t think Lecter fit that mould at all though. “He is a man without remorse, without guilt and entirely selfish in his actions but he doesn’t really exhibit any other criteria for that label.”

“In the Macdonald triad?”

He smiled, glad she’d paid attention in class. “Right, the idea that any combination of a set of three factors, being cruel or abusive to animals, arson or drug offences and regularly wetting the bed, can indicate or predict that someone will grow up to be a serial killer or other kind of violent offender.”

“But you said Lecter didn’t meet two of the criteria.”

“He doesn’t, he tortured animals as a child but he wasn’t a bed wetter and arson is too unpredictable for his liking.” So what was Lecter? Dispassionate, superbly logical, a machine. Deficient in many things such as emotions. Get a drink in him and he’d probably say that Lecter is a man enamoured with mankind and has an affinity for people but he definitely does not walk among us.

Mulder was very much reminded of Nosferatu, Frankenstein.... Norman Bates even. Movie monsters for sure but misunderstood, not evil in any conventional sense, in any moral sense, because they lack the morals for that. They believed that the limited choices available to them, to kill, was right and just and true because they were finally taking control of something. Whereas a regular person might go to the supermarket to buy soup a serial killer might kill because it makes them feel as normal as the soup purchaser.

It wasn’t right or just or true of course, these people were ill and in no way sympathetic. The law as well as his own psychology told him that. “I don’t think there’s a name for what he is, there's a part of his brain, something in his psyche, that’s missing and whether or not that makes him a monster or something else, well,” he shrugged dramatically, “that’s for other people to decide now but my thoughts are all in that file folder.”

“Right,” she tucked it away like it was a prized jewel. She had one more question. “Is he still dangerous?”

“Only if you get too close. Only if you piss him off.” He remembered the nurse Lecter had attacked and his stomach flipped. “Only if you allow him inside your head, my advice: don’t do that.”

She stood, shook his hand, enjoyed the feel of his fingers wrapping around hers. They were soft and he clearly looked after his hands. She liked men with good hands. “Did you piss him off?”

He laughed loudly, looked away abashed. The answer was probably. He pissed everyone off eventually. “Well I caught him so probably.”

She had to ask, “How did you do that?”

“Another time.” It was pure chance. Luck. He still had Lecter’s encyclopedia of gastronomy, Larousse Gastronomique, in the bottom drawer of his desk. He knew French so he liked to look at it occasionally, especially when he was eating junk food as he knew it pissed Lecter off. He gestured at the door and started ushering her away with a hand to the small of her back. “Good luck, you’ll let me know how it goes?”

“Of course.” She’d like that very much indeed and she gladly took the business card he offered.

He watched her leave, wishing her all the luck in the world because she would need it. He raised an eyebrow when, halfway down the room, she turned around, paused and then smiled at him. He didn’t get many of those so he smiled back.

Yes he rather did like Agent Trainee Dana Scully. Her red hair and her keenness, her confidence, her blushes. Her small shape that she carried tall, like she belonged in the world and would make sure everyone else needed to know that.

She was everything his ex-wife wasn’t.


	5. Chapter 5

At the last minute she’d decided to take the train to Baltimore, realising it would afford her extra time to read the file folder Mulder had gifted her. She was nothing if not prepared. The train would take a little over 3 hours so she found a quiet compartment and dug in skimming relevant passages, picking out the more interesting notes and jotting things down in her own leather bound journal.

Lecter’s history, before his graduation from medical school in Baltimore, was potted at best, inconclusive, because, according to Mulder, Lecter had deliberately turned himself into an enigma in order to evade detection and to engineer his own celebrity. Outside of a few court records Lecter was his own early biographer.

Lecter had been born in Lithuania in 1933 to a well-to-do family, his father a hereditary count and his mother a high-born lady from two noble Italian families. Both had been murdered in 1941 by a passing Nazi panzer unit who’d shelled the Lecter estate. It said that they had two children Micha and Hannibal. Only Hannibal had made it to the orphanage. A record existed of a conversation between Mulder and Lecter that stated Lecter believed Mischa was eaten by the unit. Mulder later suspected him of hunting down the people that had killed his sister and looking at some of the wound patterns on the victims, missing cheeks and random bits of flesh, she could only come to the same conclusion.

Later being adopted at 13 by a kindly aunt and uncle Lecter had consequently gone on to be well educated, could speak several languages fluently, seemed very cultured, murdering people aside, and was one of the leading figures in Baltimore society (though he’d been ripping off patients to fund his lifestyle and interests like a common criminal).

What had gone wrong she pondered. If it wasn’t for the fact he ate his victims and lived in an asylum he’d be a catch. He wasn’t unattractive either.

She fished around for the official court records of Lecter’s early life and even they were scant in detail. Lecter was suspected in the death of a local butcher when he was a teenager but had passed a lie detector test. A few years later there were other accusations, also in Lithuania, which had at least resulted in a trial, but again there was little actual evidence and no thirst to prosecute as the dead were mostly war criminals.

She sighed, watched the countryside outside begin to turn to urbanisation and mused that it would be a whole lot better if Lecter’s past blossomed in the same manner. It wasn’t meant to be however. He indeed was an enigma with little in the way of actual evidence for anything beyond what he was now serving time for. There were no real personal relationships, his friendships were mostly him hovering around the edges of groups, and as for a love life there were only hints and maybes.

He was at least a published academic and still wrote things to this day. She’d rather enjoyed his surgical addiction paper and his words of reply on a piece about left-side / right-side facial displays in the Journal of Forensic Psychiatry, she’d read in the station waiting room. Perhaps if nothing else she’d be able to talk about his work with him. It would be better than asking him how he came to start murdering people again in the late 1970s, what triggered him again. While at his practise he murdered 9 more people and attacked 4 others. There was one survivor now, someone called Mason Verger.

Two if you counted Fox Mulder.

Mulder.

She drummed her fingers on the table as she thought about him. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was about him that intrigued but she definitely was. Perhaps it was the little sparkle he had in his eyes that had refused to be dimmed, perhaps it was the easy smile. Perhaps it was because he was intelligent and good looking. She allowed herself a smile now she was on her own, allowed herself to think of his hands and the way he devoured her with his intense gaze.

Of course she was also intrigued by how he’d come to be friends with Hannibal the Cannibal. Littered throughout the file were his personal annotations and accounts of how they’d met while working a case not long after he’d started at the BSU in 1986. Mulder had sought him out because he had a link to one of the victims and they’d bonded through Lecter’s disdain for psychology and sport, two of Mulder’s loves, their shared love of music, opera and literature of all things English and French, and a shared trauma of a lost sister. She paused over that but there was nothing else so she moved on, though it stuck with her.

Mulder had eventually come to suspect Lecter after finding some medieval medical books at Lecter’s practice and connecting wound patterns on the victims to wound patterns in the books, she knew those books and jotted down the titles to examine at a later date, however it wasn’t until a few weeks later that he found Lecter’s cookbook that he felt he had enough to bring him in. Lecter had slashed him with a linoleum knife, almost disembowelling him.

She flipped to the photographs at the back and winced. Jesus. She suspected it was bad, she didn’t know it was this bad. Mulder’s injuries, documented by the doctors in the hospital, was one step away from catastrophic. There were a lot of protruding and torn bowels.

For her own experience as a doctor she knew it would’ve been a long and hard recovery. She also knew that it would’ve taken a long surgery to get him right again and that he'd been damn lucky nothing had properly spilled out. She’d come across a disembowelment on her surgical rotation during her fourth year of med school, a man cutting a tree down had slipped off a ladder and caught his stomach with the chainsaw, and trying to repack someone’s bowels into such a small cavity was an almost impossible task. She was not happy with her work that day.

She went back to her previous page. Further down the page was a pontification which was more intriguing, “Lecter once told me ‘by the time the sheep wake up and try to change things, it will be too late’ did he mean me or was he talking about himself?” Next to it was an unhappy blue biro face.

“Oh Mulder,” she sighed sadly, already feeling a connection to him.

The comment was filled with guilt, uncertainty and self doubt. Mulder had seemed pretty confident on the surface but below it? Well she didn't know him well enough to judge but his eyes spoke of a lot of horrors. His profile and notes definitely spoke of a trauma internalised, of a man worrying about his own mental state. There was a clear indication of Mulder’s decline in his thought patterns: worrying that he shared too much with Lecter, that they had too much in common and had bonded through shared trauma, interests and a well heeled family. She read that he thought he was Lecter at one point. It was no wonder he’d sought help.

She’d already decided she liked him, that had come very quickly. She’d enjoyed his company, and he was certainly extremely attractive, he spoke to her as an equal, had given her a big ‘in’ to this assignment in the shape of his file and any reluctance on his part had quickly fallen away. She’d sensed he’d liked being able to talk without having to behave like the Bureau’s performing seal. 

She’d heard the rumours about him: that he was put upon, used, abused and spat out in an endless cycle. The BSU had ground him down to the point that he’d once checked himself into a psychiatric unit for a 2 week stay. They said he was barely one step away from the men he chased (she hadn’t seen any of that in his behaviour) and that's why they relied on him so much. It was horrible and it was no wonder he’d moved out of the BSU and into violent crimes. 

She only hoped the Bureau didn’t treat her in the same manner.

When she saw Mulder again, and she would as she had to hand his file back, she’d be sure to thank him, offer him a drink perhaps.

She tried going back to Lecter, but next to Mulder he didn’t seem all that intriguing any more. Lecter came across as a misguided man with huge delusions of grandeur. Though she was trying hard not to judge the man before meeting him she was finding herself agreeing with Mulder’s summations: Lecter was a man who was extremely dangerous because he had an overriding desire to get inside the minds of the disturbed and the vulnerable, deliberately choosing them in order to control and to project his rage through them. He was also a man so overwhelmed by flashbacks of his childhood traumas, the death of his sister Micha, that his fantasies of revenge have eclipsed his sense of reality to such an extent he must kill and eat parts of some of his victims to rid himself of his horrors. She almost gagged when learning about Benjamin Raspail being fed to the board of directors of his orchestra as a form of punishment for hiring Raspail.

She decided she’d had enough. By the time they rattled through the next station she’d closed the file and had begun writing to her parents. It would be Easter in a few weeks and she had a weekend off, it would be a good time to go and see them.


	6. Chapter 6

Everyone had warned her about Lecter. Nobody had thought to tell her about Dr. Frederick Chilton, the snake oil salesman in charge of Baltimore State Hospital. Proud, arrogant, pompous and incompetent were only the nice things she could say about him. Last night in the motel she’d tried to read his book on Lecter. It was pure sensationalist garbage, nothing but lies, and she’d given up after 5 chapters. She’d left it on the table in the motel vending machine room. Hopefully someone would pick it up or trash it, she didn’t care which.

His office spoke of a man who valued style over substance, his polished teeth of vanity and his almost bouffant, hurricane proof, hair of too much time in front of a mirror. His overly large desk, devoid of personal effects and pointy things, was the worst kind of overcompensation she’d seen in a long while.

He was well dressed and clearly spent money on his clothes, he was currently wearing a fine 3 piece brown suit, which was something she supposed but as he grinned at her and tried to grease the wheels she started to feel uncomfortable. If that wasn't bad enough she was still trying to wipe the hair lacquer off of her hands from when they’d greeted each other. He had an awful habit of checking to see if his hair was still in place (she didn’t know why, nothing was moving that thing). No amount of wiping would get rid of the smell of it though. It was like an expensive drain cleaner and rather reminded her of the pine scented bleach her mother had used last spring to rid the crawlspace under the house of dead raccoon smell.

“Lecter is nothing but a monster, a pure sociopath,” he said after introductions had been made and they’d settled into their comfortable plush leather seats.

He was posturing she knew, like a peacock in heat, and as he sat taller in his chair she thought he was going to start strutting. He was stroking her ID card almost lecherously.

“Did you make that diagnosis yourself Dr Chilton?” She asked knowing the diagnosis was crap, remembering her conversation with Mulder.

He smirked proudly. “Why yes I did. I’ve been rather privileged in having such unfettered access to such a fine specimen, it’s so rare to capture one alive you see and therefore Lecter is our most prized asset. Naturally one has to keep a tight control on who has access to him, I only let the finest academics in usually, the occasional police officer…” he eyed her lasciviously, wet his lip with his greedy tongue and she fought not to gag. He reached over and grabbed a copy of his book, offered it to her, “Have you read my work Ms. Scully?”

“No,” she lied. She was about to take the offered book but he snatched it back, dramatically signed it and then gave it to her. She quickly put it in her shoulder bag and out of sight. She’d give it to someone in her class, Colton would lap it up and it was his birthday soon. She offered a polite thanks but it was only later she realised he’d scrawled his phone number in it.

“You know,” he offered, lowering his tone to a level he probably thought seductive. “We get a few police officers in here but I must say I can’t ever remember one as attractive as you, what shade of red is that?”

It took all of her might not to snark back the word ‘unavailable’. Instead she went with the much more polite, “Pre-Raphaelite.”

“Beautiful, just beautiful.” 

He framed his fingers as if he wanted to take a picture and she wished she'd worn a pant suit because he was soon grazing her legs with his eyes, it felt like a tickle not even fire could get rid of. As a woman in law enforcement she was sadly already used to not being taken seriously and objectified but he was positively disgusting. She pulled her skirts further towards her knees.

“Will you be staying in Baltimore overnight?”

Oh god, he wasn’t serious was he? The look in his eyes said ‘yes’ though. “No, I actually have to get back to Quantico unfortunately. I have to file my report straight away.”

His smile didn’t move. “That’s a shame because you know Baltimore can be a very fun town, if you have the right guide.”

“I’m sure it’s a great town Dr Chilton, and you a great guide, but I have my instructions.” His smile faltered and she wondered if he could read her disdain. Too bad. She could play nice only to a certain degree. He thrust her ID card back at her and she took it, wiping it surreptitiously on the side of her chair to rid it of him but it too came away sullied and pine scented.

He’d definitely soured and as he stood up he almost gritted out, “I see.” His cheeks pink from offense he marched over to the door and wrenched it open, his tone to the point, “Let’s make this quick then shall we. I am a very busy and sought after man.”

She smiled, ever polite, even if she thought his offence wasn’t her problem, she wasn’t here to manage his hurt feelings, they were not her responsibility, and she didn’t owe him anything. She had a particular dislike of butt-hurt men who felt they were owed something.

She followed him down through the building as they talked. “I was led to believe that you would give me a briefing on the procedures here?”

He snarled, “We can do it while we walk.”

Doors were opened and clanged shut noisily as they moved, bolts heaved in and out of position. She tried not to flinch but they echoed long after them so it was hard. The building was old, built sometime in the 1880s and accordingly the internal structure and decor hadn’t been updated much. What could be whitewashed was gleaming and the floors polished to a high standard but no money had been spent here in years. If you looked close enough you could see paint chips everywhere and the bars on the doors and windows looked original.

“During his spree in the 70s and early 80s Lecter carved up 9 people, that we’re sure of, and cooked his favourite pieces: cheeks, livers, a thyroid in one case.” Another door opened and closed and she pretended what he was telling her was new information. “We’ve tried to study him, of course, but he really only opens up to certain individuals, the agent who caught him for one, Mulder, but he never visits anymore… much to Lecter’s chagrin,” he chuckled like he thought it was a great punishment for Lecter. It probably was.

“When was the last time he was visited by anyone?”

“Oh that would be me. I make sure to visit at least once a day, sometimes just to observe. Sometimes to try and administer my own tests but you know he’s much too sophisticated for any standard test, believe me I’ve tried, so we’re trying to come up with a more suitable one.”

“And results are positive?”

“Indeed.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “We’ve got some of the best minds in the state working on it.”

She wondered if he meant himself. Arrogance shone from him like the sun shone from a cloudless sky on a hot summer's day. “Does he ever talk to you?”

“Me? Only to insult nowadays. He hates us you know, and you know he thinks I’m his nemesis,” he laughed gleefully, like it was an achievement. She would add sadistic to the long list of things she hated about him. “You know Assistant Director Skinner, Agent Mulder, they’re being very clever aren’t they?” He paused to eye her up again while an orderly wiped up a spillage down the hall. At her confused look he added, “In using you I mean.”

“How do you mean?”

He chuckled and she was convinced he was deliberately trying to unnerve her. “A pretty young woman like yourself, someone to turn him on, don’t you see it?” He laughed louder, loud enough for the orderly to pause and look up. “I don’t believe Lecter has seen a woman in the entire time he’s been here, 4 years.” He hummed at her, his head moving from side to side while he made a meal of her. “And oh are you ever his ‘taste’ so to speak.”

He reached out to touch her hair but before he could make contact the orderly moved and she was able to move swiftly out of his grasp. She wanted to tell him to fuck off and she was fuming at Skinner. “I graduated at the top of my class at both Stanford and Maryland. Neither were charm schools, Dr Chilton.”

He hummed again as they went down a few more flights of stairs and arrived at a set of heavy double doors. “Good, then you should be able to remember these rules.” He opened one of them and beyond was a small anteroom, beyond that another set of doors leading to a sort of command room and then finally beyond that a long dark corridor that she could see through the collection of small door windows.

Nerves set in again, as did the feeling that she was being set up for something, as one of the lights above flickered on and off and a cold blast of air caught her. She could hear faint shouts, voices ruined though screaming, and lots of banging. The area was darker than the floors above, no natural light at all, and she realised she didn’t know how far down they actually were. The basement for sure but how many levels underground she couldn’t remember and admonished herself for not paying attention.

Someone in the command room saw them and Chilton waved and by the time they’d made it to the command centre doors a set of electrical locks being released sounded.

“I’m warning you now Ms Scully,” he said, his hand on the door handle, his voice stern. “Do not reach through the bars of any cell, do not touch any of them either. You do not pass Lecter anything apart from the pages of your survey, no pens, pencils, staples, or paperclips as he’ll use them to hurt someone. Anything you pass him, and anything he returns, must be via the sliding food carrier, no exceptions. Don’t take anything he might hold out for you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” she said in a voice a little above a whisper.

He pulled something out of his inner suit jacket pocket, what looked like a small dogeared photo. “I’m going to show you why we insist on taking such precautions. On the afternoon of July 8th 1988 he complained of chest pains and was taken to our dispensary on the first floor, his mouthpiece and restraints were removed to administer an EKG, when the nurse bent over to attach the wires he did this to her…” 

He passed her the photo then and enjoyed watching her stop in her tracks and blanch at the woman’s ruined face, half of which was missing. Her remaining eye was sitting on her cheek, next to what little remained of her nose, and her mouth was a wreck. There was so much blood.

“The doctors managed to save one of her eyes and reset her jaw but sadly we couldn’t retrieve her lips, tongue or nose from Lecter’s stomach.”

Scully didn’t know what was worse: the photograph or the fact he carried it around with him. No, it was neither she decided, it was his attention to her as he swept over her face with fast grubby eyes. Her Aunt Olive had a farm in Ireland and she was much reminded of the chickens she kept, thirstily pecking away at their food, only he was doing it with her emotions. Unnerving was how she’d describe it.

He took the photo back and stroked it. “We never let him out without restraints and a mouthpiece now.” He examined the photo for himself, lovingly gazing at it like one would a masterpiece in the Louvre, much like he did with her. “You know his pulse never got above 85, even when he swallowed her tongue.” He finally pulled the door open and said, “I keep him in here.”

A big orderly, dressed in a smart white uniform, greeted them both and she quickly leaned his name was Barney. He was tall, broad and looked strong. Just as well. On the walls were restraints and riot gear, mace and tranquilizer guns, a long instrument like a two pronged fork for pinioning the violent to the wall. Heavy duty stuff. Short of a bullet anyway.

Of more interest was the row of monitors giving her a window into the long narrow corridor beyond the command centre. She peared at it, not quite sure what she was hoping to see, but couldn’t make out much, it was too dark.

Chilton made to open the door but she blocked him by stepping in front of him, Barney smirked behind Chilton’s shoulder and she knew he hated the man too.

“Dr Chilton,” she said calmly. “It’s probably a good idea if I do this part on my own.” He looked aghast so she smiled to try and set him at ease. “If Lecter thinks you’re his enemy, if there’s a chance he might target you, we might have more luck if I approach this myself.” There was no way she was having Chilton in there with her. He’d strut around and ruin any chance, however minute, she had of getting Lecter to open up. She also doubted Lecter would trust her if he thought she was in leagues with this fool.

His cheek twitched and he licked his lip again while he thought about it. He still looked mildly annoyed though and snitted, “You might have suggested this in my office and saved me the time.”

She smiled flirtily, she knew how to play the game. “I didn’t want to miss the pleasure of your company.”

His jaw twitched in a half smile and he nodded, any sense of ire left. He spun on his heel and began walking away, telling her, “I’ll leave you in Barney’s capable hands then, he’ll see you out later.” He stopped, grinned and offered. “If you change your mind about seeing Baltimore do give my secretary a ring, won’t you?”

Thankfully he didn’t wait for an answer. She let out a huge sigh of relief, thanking a god she wasn’t sure she believed in right now that he was now gone. She caught Barney’s knowing smile and returned it.

“He does that with every woman he meets, take no notice,” Barney offered.

“I won’t, thank you.” She took her jacket off and hung it up with her purse on the offered hook.

“He told you about the rules with the cell?” She nodded so he said, “Good, Lecter’s cell is past all the others, the last one on the left at the end of the hall.” He pulled the doors open and the shouts, now hoarse from overuse, grew exponentially louder. “I put a chair out for you.” He smiled reassuringly again when she looked at him nervously. “I can see everything on these monitors, you’ll do fine.”

She nodded gratefully, smoothed her clothes down and wished she had his level of confidence. She took a deep breath, gripped the handle of her briefcase too hard and stepped through the doors and let them close ominously behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

The corridor was long, at least 30 metres, with cells on one side and a stone wall on the other. They were a hodgepodge of cages adapted out of necessity according to who the occupant was. Some were padded with small observation widows that she couldn’t see into, others were standard prison cells with bars, others had glass fronts to them. Chilton’s personal laboratory. She shuddered.

Only one was lit up, the end one.

Scully was very much away of the figures behind each door, she could hear them muttering and laughing even above the echo of her heeled footsteps, but she tried not to look at them and consciously moved closer to the wall. She was glad of the surveillance cameras high up following her every movement because she was scared out of her mind and could hear her own blood sloshing around her body.

Around halfway down a voice hissed out, “I can smell your cunt,” and she jumped as a shabby looking figure within hurled himself at the bars, his face smashing grotesquely into the metal. He laughed at her reaction and she gasped, flinching before gathering herself and walking on quickly, her breath loud and her body sweating as she did so. She hated this place.

As Lecter’s glass fronted cell came into view she hoped he would be receptive and this wouldn’t take long. As she shook away the fright of the man who’d leapt at her away she quickly observed his decor, making mental notes: lots of bolted down furniture, a toilet, softcover books and papers, on the walls lots of extraordinarily detailed and skilled drawings in crayon and charcoal. They looked like European cityscapes though she couldn’t be entirely sure. She hadn’t travelled much.

Lecter himself was lounging on his bunk, dressed in a blue jumpsuit, probably standard issue, reading, of all things, an Italian Vogue. Given that all the pages were loose she assumed that the staples had been removed.

She stopped and placed her briefcase down and cleared her throat, announcing herself. “Dr. Lecter, My name is Dana Scully. May I speak with you?” She remembered Mulder’s words and resolved to be polite and courteous at all times.

He turned to consider her with narrowed eyes and suspicion and she was instantly reminded of Mulder. Thankfully they looked nothing alike. Lecter was approaching 60, his hair was starting to thin, he had a slight paunch to him and his face was pale and drawn, a man who’d been out of the sun for a very long time. She wondered if he was ever allowed outside. After thinking of the nurse he’d bit though she doubted it. It was probably for the best.

He rose smoothly, coming to stand before her, a gracious host it would seem. He uttered, “Good morning.”

His voice was cultured and soft with a slight Eastern European twang to it if you cared to pick it out. If not he sounded English. There didn’t seem to be much to indicate she was in danger from this man but she wouldn’t trust him, not an inch. His eyes never left her and he watched her to the point she felt like prey about to be picked apart. What recipe would he pick out for her she mused.

She didn’t dare sit yet, she would wait for an invitation. She thought desperately of what to say, this moment she’d been over and over and none of them had seemed right. She settled on being to the point. “Doctor we have a problem at the Behavioural Science Unit, I want to ask for your help with a questionnaire.” She gestured to her briefcase.

“‘We’ being Patterson and his ugly little cronies, are you one of his little birds?”

She shook her head, surprised at how calm she was sounding, “No Sir, I was sent by someone above him, Assistant Director Walter Skinner.”

“Ah yes,” he said thoughtfully but didn’t expand on what he was thinking. “It must be important if an Assistant Director is bypassing a Supervisory Special Agent. Titles begetting titles.”

She smiled, imagining the pissing contest.

“That amuses you?”

She raised an eyebrow and replied, “Bureaucracy always does Sir.”

“Me too,” he agreed. “May I see your credentials?” he asked.

It took her somewhat by surprise and she was momentarily caught off guard, she’d already shown them to Chilton upstairs so wondered why she would need to again. Still, he had a right to see them so she fished around in her jacket pocket and held her prized possession aloft.

He smiled kindly, but then tipped his head sceptically. “Closer,” he demanded. When she hesitated he sing-songed, “Clo-ser, please.”

She was doing everything in her power to hide her fear but complied and stepped cautiously towards the glass. He lifted his head, testing the air with flared nostrils, sniffing gently, like an animal. He smiled while glancing at her badge and then he softly snarled.

“That expires in less than a week, you’re not real FBI are you?”

“No,” she gulped. She suddenly felt like an imposter though if he couldn’t take his eyes off her she couldn’t of him. He was as fascinating as he was disturbing. “I’m still in training at the academy.”

“A trainee?” he hissed disbelievingly. “Assistant Director Walter Skinner sent a trainee to interview me?”

Chilton wasn’t the only one with a huge ego. 

“He sent me because I’m a medical doctor.” That surprised him and she held up her pathology ID card that she used in the forensics labs back at base, glad she’d had the foresight to bring it. “I graduated from Stanford Dr Lecter, I assure you I’m fully qualified to speak to someone of your standing but whether or not you believe I’m mentally up to the challenge, only you can decide.” He smiled, seemed to relax somewhat. “Besides, it is only psychology we’re here to talk about, nothing too taxing or serious.” That got him, his lip twitched, she knew she could appeal to his hatred of psychology.

He hummed again, thought it over and decided to give her a chance. “That’s rather slippery of you Dr Scully.” He almost sounded impressed. “Sit, please.” 

He gestured with his arm but he stood and continued to watch. It wasn’t until she’d sat down on the small metal folding chair and had made herself comfortable that he moved again but he made no move to sit himself. She’d never met a man with more impeccable manners. She’d never met a man who moved so little or one who made it seem like he was making a thousand movements with just the one either.

“What is a medical doctor doing at the FBI?”

She told him exactly what she’d told Skinner and he nodded.

“Now then. What did Miggs say to you?” At her puzzled expression he expounded on what he meant, “‘Multiple Miggs’ in the next cell. He hissed at you. What did he say?”

Oh that. She faltered but didn’t blush or shy away. She wasn’t afraid of an expletive, or repeating one. Besides, now she’d had time to think about it, he was just another ill man in a long line of them and she wanted to be honest with Lecter, it might get him talking. “He said ‘I can smell your cunt.’”

He thought it over. “I see. I myself cannot.” He didn’t look like it was a shame and she was glad. “You use La Prairie White Caviar skin cream, and sometimes you wear L’Air du Temps, but not today. You have expensive tastes.”

Not really. She liked to smell nice, she liked to be feminine when she wasn’t knee deep in mud and dead bodies. “I like the bottle it came in.”

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes seemed to smile though his mouth did not. “You bought your best bag though, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” It was a gift from Melissa, she’d chosen exceptionally well. Stylish and professional.

“It’s much better than your shoes,” he said, his eyes travelling down and then up again.

“I prefer comfort over style at the moment on account of my training,” she chuckled. “But you never know, maybe they’ll catch up.”

“I have no doubt of it.” He shifted from left foot to right and back again. “How do you feel about what Miggs said?" 

"Nothing, he's hostile for reasons I don’t know. It's too bad. He's hostile to people, people are hostile to him. It's an aggressive and unrewarding loop." It was a guess because she didn’t care.

"Are you hostile towards him now?"

“Hostile?” She tried to stay as straight faced as possible and not laugh. “He's noise. Nothing more.” She’d heard worse in the locker room back at base. Changing the subject she looked around his cell again. “Did you do those drawings Doctor, they’re exquisite?”

“Yes, I did. It keeps me occupied.” He looked over his shoulder at them briefly. “That’s the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo, seen from the Belvedere.”

“Florence,” she questioned and he nodded. She couldn’t help being impressed. “All that detail, just from memory?”

“Memory, Dr Scully, is all I have now.”

If he thought she was going to feel sorry for him he was mistaken. Still, it was something to talk about. “The one above the sink, it’s Golgotha after the Deposition.”

He smiled, impressed. “Crayon and magic marker on butcher paper. Chilton doesn’t often allow me paper for my drawings so I have to make do with the scraps included with the things people send me.”

She wondered who the hell would be writing to him but then again she’d heard about serial killer groupies during one of her first lectures. Looking around his cell, at the small pile of letters on his table she guessed he wasn’t as popular as he might once have been. The groupies had probably moved on to more high profile, tabloid relevant, killers by now.

“It's what the thief who’d been promised Paradise really got, when they took the paschal lamb away," she replied.

“Yes, a pair of broken legs, just like his companion who mocked christ. You know the Gospel of St. John. You wear a lovely little gold cross, are you religious or is it for show?”

She honestly didn’t know right now but she touched the necklace. “I grew up in a Catholic household, religion was important.”

“Then but not now?”

She shrugged, forced herself not to expand on it as he’d jumped on it. She admonished herself. She shouldn’t be telling him anything personal. Both Skinner and Mulder had warned her. She felt like a fool.

“How is Agent Mulder?” he asked suddenly.

Oh god. Like a deer in the headlights she looked at him. He had her and she knew he was reading her like an open book, her secrets spilling out like a terrified suspect under the weakest of examinations. Not even that like a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

“I don’t know Agent Mulder,” she stuttered.

“You’re lying. He was Patterson’s protege before I gave him the tools to break free.”

“I’ve met him once.”

“Did you talk about me?”

She drew herself up to full height in her chair, looked him straight in the eye and lied. She was getting used to that. “No, he was talking to the class about John Lee Roche.” It worked. He looked convinced and disappointed all at once so she reached down and grabbed her bag, pulled out her questionnaire. She needed to change the subject away from Mulder. She needed to protect him. “Rather than discussing Agent Mulder perhaps you could lend me your view on…”

He sighed heavily and his shoulders slumped. He was very disappointed in her and she felt it.

“No, no, no Dr. Scully. You were doing fine. You’d been courteous and receptive to courtesy, you’d established trust with the embarrassing truth about Miggs, even offered up little tidbits about yourself, and then you come in with this ham-handed segue into your questionnaire. It just won’t do. It’s stupid and boring.” He puffed a self important air, “You’re behaving like the schoolgirl you are.”

“I'm asking you to respond to the questionnaire, as an experienced clinical psychiatrist, either you will or you won't.” She waved the document in the air. “Would it hurt you to look?"

“Have you read any of the research papers coming out of the Behavioral Science Unit recently?"

He was deflecting but she responded anyway. She had heard of the research, found them fascinating. "Yes." 

"So have I. They're dividing the people who practice serial murder into two groups, organized and disorganized. What do you think of that?" 

She thought it was a good method. Lecter was in the organised group, the high achievers and the intelligent, so she didn’t know why he was complaining. "It's fundamental, they’re doing some good..." 

"Simplistic is what I would call it. They put me in the same category as Roache, did you know that? A garden variety paedophile. It’s offensive. Most psychology is puerile, Dr. Scully, and that practiced by the Behavioural Science Unit is on a level with phrenology. The likes of Patterson are little more than pseudoscientists, bottom feeders who dare to grade us all on the same curve.”

She thought it was a good way to organise them actually, though she didn’t tell him that. He clearly just wanted to be in a category all on his own. Didn’t they all though? “Do you have the same opinion of Agent Mulder?” She had to ask.

He raised his eyebrow again. “Agent Mulder is a very rare little bird indeed.” He was off privately reminiscing about something and then he was back. “He’s much more than the personality deficient types and coffee shop enthusiasts of your basic Behavioural Science Unit.”

“Is that because he caught you?”

“No, Dr. Scully. It’s because he’s one of a kind, he has a rather peculiar and beautiful mind in fact. I highly encourage you to seek him out. You might learn a thing or two.”

She only hoped he’d give her more of his time. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

He actually chuckled and said, “He caught me because I was a bad host.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his joke. She put the questionnaire down on her lap but not away. He was watching it carefully as if he was trying to make a decision.

“It’s a shame he’s not here now,” he said.

“He’s a very busy man.”

“The whole of the FBI must be very busy indeed if they’re sending trainees. I suppose they’re busy hunting that Buffalo Bill fellow, such a naughty boy!”

Her ears picked up and she became nervous again, was she allowed to talk to him about Buffalo Bill? Was this really why she was here after all? To lure Lecter into a trap? She was so unsure other than to curse that she hated her job right now.

“Did Skinner send you to ask for my opinion on him?”

“No, I came because we need…”

"What do you know about Buffalo Bill?"

She thought of the displays both in Skinner’s office and Mulder’s. Resigned to her fate she answered, “Only what I've read in the paper.”

“Hmmm, well I’m not sure I’d trust those rags but,” he shrugged. “One must do on certain things however. Have they reported on everything?”

“I haven't seen any confidential material on the case, I’m not involved in it, I’m only here to..."

He ignored her. "How many women has Buffalo Bill used?"

She sighed. "The police have found five." 

"All flayed?"

"Partially, yes. An arm, a leg, the torso of one victim..." 

"The papers have never explained his name. Do you know why he's called Buffalo Bill?" 

"Yes," She answered quietly, she did.

"Tell me."

"I'll tell you if you'll look at this questionnaire." It was a sneaky gambit but she felt she had some leverage.

Luckily after considering it for a few seconds he nodded. "I'll look, that's all. Now, why? The newspapers won’t say." 

She thought to what she’d heard around the base, "It started as a bad joke in Kansas City homicide." It was an appalling moniker and she hated serial killer nicknames. It unnecessarily glorified them. “They said... this one likes to skin his humps.”

“Witless and misleading. Why do you think he takes their skins Dr. Scully?” Eyes dead on her again he leered, “Thrill me with your wisdom.”

She felt like she was back in class. It was almost comforting. “It excites him, most serial killers keep some sort of trophy. It’s a way for them to relive the crime between kills." John Lee Roche kept little hearts, Jerry Brudos kept feet, others kept underwear, Buffalo Bill kept the skin.

“I didn’t.”

Quick as a flash she quipped, “No, you ate yours.”

He smiled at her boldness, a smile that actually reached his eyes. “Send me through your questionnaire.”

She got up, feeling relieved, triumphant at having made the inroad, and placed it carefully in the deep metal tray while making sure he was nowhere near it. She didn’t want her hands caught in that thing. It wasn’t her wish to watch someone chewing on her fingers while she bled to death in a lunatic asylum.

She sat back down while Lecter flipped noisily through it. After a beat he dropped it unceremoniously back into the drawer and stared at her and her heart sank. So much for having made progress. He was just playing with her.

"Oh, Dr. Scully, do you think you can dissect me with this blunt little tool?" 

"No, I think you can provide some insight and advance this study. I was only hoping that your knowledge..."

He rammed the tray forward making her jump when the metallic clanged against the end of the runner. "And what possible reason could I have to do that?" 

"Curiosity." 

"About what?" 

"About why you're here. About what happened to you." She was struggling to come up with a reason. She looked up the hallway towards the exit and desperately wished she could leave.

"Nothing happened to me, Dr. Scully. I happened. Not everything can be programmed, categorized or easily referenced and you can't reduce me to a set of influences. Agent Mulder would never insult me in such a way.”

“Well unfortunately for you you're stuck with the likes of me because Agent Mulder refused this assignment because of what you did to him,” she snapped, finally losing her calm. She felt as frustrated with Lecter as Mulder did.

He twitched but it soon disappeared. “Temper temper Dr Scully,” he soothed, his tone never rising above soft and pleasant. “What would the FBI say about that I wonder?”

She remained impassive but did say, “I’ll be sure to note it in my field report.”

“Ah yes, your field report. You’d like to quantify me there if not in that,” he said gesturing at the drawer where the questionnaire still lay. “You’re ambitious, aren’t you Dr Scully. Stanford Medical School and now the FBI. I suppose you want to be director one day?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” She just wanted to do a good job.

“I think you have, I bet you practise in front of the mirror every day. I bet you used that little student card of yours and pretended like you used to do as a child when you played dress up. All the other little boys and girls wanted to be kings and queens while little Dana Scully wanted to play doctor.”

“There’s nothing wrong with believing you can be more Dr. Lecter…”

“No, indeed not.” He leaned towards the glass, almost touching it. He suddenly sounded more determined to wind her up. “Do you know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a naive little girl, someone who’s still struggling to fit in and find her place. You’re sitting there wondering if the FBI is the right place for you just like you did with medical school. You’re little more than a rube, full of inexperience and bluster and childish indecision. Oh for sure you might come from a nice god fearing family and you’re bright behind those shiny blue eyes of yours but you’re desperate not to be like your mother, desperate to avoid the life your father dreams of for you: a broodmare for a good man, a serviceman no doubt, a homemaker. I bet the word is an obscenity to your little ears: homemaker.

Let me tell you something specific about yourself, Agent Trainee Dana Scully. Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, though barely, and your parents have provided you with a good life but you’re little more than one or two generations away from being poor white trash. Scully, that’s from the Gallic Ó Scolaidhe isn’t it? Did your parents come over on the paid-to-leave boat? Did they escape a life down the mines or on the peat bogs, a life of oats and potatoes? How hard did they work on ridding themselves of that lilting accent, making sure you didn’t pick it up? And oh how you would’ve rebelled against them, sneaking outside at midnight for cigarettes no doubt, sneaking away for tedious fumblings with older boys, looking for something more, sticking it to your parents. Rebellion. You stink of it. Rebelling to the point it got you all the way to F...B...I.”

She glared at him, he’d hit home with one or two things and it stung, each truth hitting her body like tiny precision darts. However she wasn’t going to give herself up to this man, she wouldn’t let him know she was rattled. 

She got up and rammed the drawer all the way back in his direction angrily and, as he looked at it in question, she challenged, while standing close to the glass, “You see a lot Dr. Lecter, you’re very perceptive, you read people and I won’t deny that you’ve said a few truths, but are you strong enough to point that high powered perception at yourself? Look at yourself and write down the truth. What more fit or complex subject could you find? Or maybe you're afraid of yourself."

“You’re a tough one, aren’t you, Dr. Scully?”

“Reasonably so, yes.” She liked to think so anyway. If nothing else came of today she would at least come away from this feeling somewhat stronger for having dealt with this man. With all these men. “It got me all the way to the FBI, hardly common.”

"And you'd hate to think you were common. Wouldn't that sting? My! Well you're far from common, Dr Scully. All you have is fear of it. Fear of being like all the other little maids in your family.” He paused as if he was immensely tired and then dismissed her. “Now please excuse me. Have a good day now won’t you and give my regards to Agent Mulder.”

She looked to the draw and then back at him wondering if he’d look at the questionnaire now. “And the questionnaire?”

He smiled, his eyes locking on hers again, and replied matter of factly, “A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti… sail back home, be a good little bird now.”

He stepped back then to return to his cot, lying back down and becoming once again the stone effigy on a coffin as he’d been when she’d first arrived. She hesitated but grabbed her briefcase when it was certain he wouldn’t give her another glance.

As she turned to walk away she felt empty, exhausted, like she’d run another circuit of the training ground. Her strides were leaden and awkward and so was her mood. She felt soaked with failure and was already going over in her head what she would say to Skinner, how she would explain herself and tell him she’d ignored his advice. She didn’t feel fit to wear her badge, temporary or otherwise, right now.

It was such a long walk out of here too and she felt like she was the one who’d been on trial, perhaps she had. If this was the test she’d been worrying about then she’d failed spectacularly. She should’ve left as soon as he’d refused to answer the questions. Why had she stayed? To prove how tough she was? To be the good little worker the FBI expected her to be? 

She didn’t know. She just felt deflated and alone and now she had to walk past Miggs again, currently chuntering obscenities in a dry hiss.

“I b-bit my wrist so I c-can diiiieeeeeeeee, s-ee how it bleeds?”

She should’ve called Barney but startled and, still foggy from her conversation with Lector, thinking she might need to use her medical training, she looked into the cell. There was some blood, not much but enough to have to call someone. He laughed though and she gasped in horror when Miggs flicked his hand towards her.

Something warm and wet landed before she had a chance to turn away and at first she thought it might be blood but as she moved back against the cold stone of the wall and touched herself she realised it was his come. His warm come was all over her cheek, hair and shoulder. She gagged and recoiled further, crying out. Miggs started laughing maniacally and bouncing around his cell like an excited monkey in a zoo. Through the commotion she was distinctly aware Lecter was calling her back, she could hear him above the hideousness of Miggs.

Stunned and near tears she just wanted out. She forced herself upright and began walking on while fumbling for a tissue, barely in control anymore. From behind her Lecter was calling out again, in an agitated manner.

“Dr. Scully! Dr. Scully”

She slowed to a stop and against her better judgement made the difficult decision to turn around and walk back. With shuddering footsteps she was soon back in front of one of today's tormentors. He was shivering with rage, agitated and raw, and for a moment she got a real glance at the man, right into the glimpse of hell, but in a moment it was gone and he was composed again and apologizing to her.

“I would not have had that happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.”

She was desperately wiping her face to the point it already felt sore. She knew he could smell it on her and she wanted to throw up. It felt to her that he thought committing murders had purged him of lesser rudeness. Or perhaps, she thought, it excited him to see her marked in this particular way. She couldn't tell. The sparks in his eyes flew into his darkness like fireflies down a cave. Whatever it is, use it, Jesus! She looked to the drawer. “Then please, do this test for me.”

He shook his head. “No, but I’ll give you a chance for what you love most?”

“What’s that?” 

He was almost desperate as he spoke, almost pressed against the glass imploring her to take his advice. “To be taken seriously. Listen carefully. Look deep within yourself, Dr Scully. Go seek out Miss Mofet, an old patient of mine. M-O-F-E-T.” He smiled a warning, “I don't think Miggs could manage again so soon, even though he is crazy.” He shouted desperately, at the top of his voice, “Go!”

She did. She ran faster and harder than she ever had before and didn’t stop until she was outside again.


	8. Chapter 8

The grimly gothic asylum loomed large over her as she stumbled towards her rental car, a red Ford Aspire, all she’d been able to get at such short notice, and on a panic climbed inside and shut Miggs and Lector outside. She pulled the mirror down and started scrubbing again. It was all gone now, Barney had helped her scrape it off, but that didn’t stop her from trying to cleanse herself. She felt dirty, tainted, violated.

She took off her jacket, balled it up and desperately stuffed it in a carrier bag she found in the glove compartment, determined to throw it away. It was a good jacket, it’d cost her a lot, but it was ruined now and no amount of dry cleaning would clear those memories from it.

She took a deep breath, allowed herself a few body shaking sobs, and gripped the steering wheel tightly as she went back to her motel and checked another night.

She paced in her room for what seemed like forever, had smoked more cigarettes than she could count, had thrown out her clothes, paced some more, scrubbed her hair and skin with a whole bar of soap, had taken 3 showers, sat on the floor with her knees bunched up and cried twice and now she was back to pacing. Her neighbours downstairs probably hated her. She didn’t care.

She was shaking still. Some of the things Lecter had said were horrific, eating his victims. God. It annoyed her too that some of the things he’d said about her and her family was true (though both her parents had been born on US soil and it was their parents, her grandparents, who’d emigrated rather than them). She was ambitious, she did want to be taken seriously, she was rebellious and she still wasn’t sure where her life was going to end up. 

Of course some of the things he’d said were bullshit of course, nothing but blue sky conjecture, the FBI wasn’t a way to punish her parents, for example. She was here because she wanted to be.

She knew she needed to get rid of her anger but she was disgusted by Miggs, by Lector, by the FBI, by Skinner for putting her in this position and by Mulder for refusing to speak to Lecter himself. God that son of a bitch! She had a good mind to give him a piece of her mind. She had an idea. If Lecter wanted her to seek him out she damn well would. She went to her purse and found his card, his personal number written on the back, and dialled, not caring that it was nearly 10pm.

It didn’t take him long to answer. “Hello?” he said groggily through broken sleep.

She sagged and flopped down onto the end of the cheap bed feeling immediately guilty. He wasn’t a well man, she shouldn’t be bothering him. This was a mistake. God, now she felt bad for a whole heap of other reasons. She would be kind.

“Hello?” he repeated, a little annoyed.

She almost put the phone down. Instead she mumbled out a soft, “Um, hi, sorry. I…”

“Who is this?” he demanded, cutting her off.

“It’s Scully.” Even to her own ears she sounded like a child.

“Scully?” he repeated and sighed while he thought it over. “You came to my office about Lecter.” He paused, his own voice softened as hers had. “What’s the matter?”

What was the matter? Her emotions were all over the place and now she felt like an idiot, like she should snap out of it. It was over with. She would write her report and move on. Be a big girl about it. Don’t be a damsel. “Nothing, I shouldn’t have bothered you, I’m sorry.”

He ignored her. “You spoke to Lecter?”

“Yes,” she managed to squeak.

“Did he fuck with your head?” There was no answer, he just knew. “Are you still in Baltimore?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“A place called The Stay-N-Save.” She frowned, why did he want to know? “Room 10.”

“Right, stay there. I’m in D.C, I’ll be with you in about an hour.”

He put the phone down before she could protest and as she cradled the phone receiver she wondered, not for the first time today, what the hell had just happened.


	9. Chapter 9

The knock at her door came exactly 50 minutes later and she had to admit to being impressed, under her nerves at having him here.

She opened the door still feeling stupid but glad of the civilised company and immediately flung her arms around him. 

He let out a soft, “Oh.” It was unexpected and left him feeling bemused but it was nice and she felt soft and warm in her bathrobe so he didn’t complain. It was a shame he couldn’t hug her back though being that his arms were full. He quickly decided that actually that was a good thing.

She looked up at him, at his red face, and blushed, pulling away quickly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I bought food.” He stepped in and kicked the door closed. He laughed as her stomach growled and he was glad to see her smile at least. “It’s nothing special, just some Chinese from a place down the road.”

“No, that’s great, I haven’t eaten since this morning.” A crappy cream cheese bagel.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear she stood watching him as he put the large bag of food and a pack of beer on the small dining table before shrugging off his leather jacket, revealing his shapely biceps underneath. He threw it on a chair absentmindedly and she had to admit he looked good in his grey t-shirt and jeans.

“You made it here fast,” she offered, not knowing what else to say.

“Government plates have their advantages,” he replied idly, looking around at her room which was in complete and utter disarray. “Been redecorating?” He went and gingerly picked up a lamp from the floor and put the duvet back on the bed, stuffed her papers back in her bag and satisfied himself that neither would be charged for any damage.

She nodded sadly.

To the point. “What happened with Lecter?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” She went to put her remaining clothes back in her suitcase. He couldn’t even bend over without wincing and she didn’t want him doing it, not when it was mostly underwear and pajamas since she’d binned her suit. She placed a pair of jeans and a white T on top of the case when she closed it. “It was stupid stuff, I just felt like…” she shrugged the thought away.

“Like he was staring into your soul?” He finished making the bed and sat on the end of it while she sorted out the food. “Yeah, he does that.”

“No kidding.” She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled sadly, came to sit by him on the bed and told him everything that had happened. “People warned me not to give him an inch and I stupidly gave him a mile,” she said afterwards.

He didn’t understand why she would. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she whimpered, “I thought it was imperative I got him to complete the questionnaire.”

Nothing was worth that, it wasn’t even important. “And did he?”

“No,” she said forlornly. She didn’t even have her copy to give back to Skinner.

He reached out his hand and she took it. “Well, I’m not sure it matters anyway and none of this was your fault.”

She looked up. “It was never about the questionnaire was it?”

He felt horrible but admitted, “No. It was a ploy.”

Her voice growing in confidence again she asked, “Did you know that?”

“Yeah.” He looked away guiltily. “I’m sorry, look, I didn’t know they were going to choose you. Not until you came to my office. I thought they were going to send someone experienced from the BSU. I never thought they’d send a student and I never thought....”

“I’d be stupid enough to let Lecter get to me?”

“No!” That was the truth. He didn’t blame her at all. Lecter was just Lecter and while that wasn’t an excuse she shouldn’t blame herself either. Even seasoned professionals had struggled with him. “They should never have sent you, it was reckless, absolutely stupid. You’re not trained for the likes of Lector. Medical degree or not.” He squeezed her hand, looked her in the eye and said, “I’m sorry, I truly am.” He really was too. The tactic of the questionnaire hadn’t been his idea, it was Reggie’s, but he sure felt culpable, he sure felt responsible for Lecter and Miggs. She’d been assaulted and while she was coping well enough she still looked green around the gills. He put his hand softly on her shoulder and she stared at him forlornly. Not knowing what to do he cupped her cheek with his hand tenderly and smiled when she shuddered out a nervous breath. “Is there anyone you need me to call?” he asked low. “Your mom, boyfriend?”

“No it’s late,” she said, allowing his touch, enjoying it more than she should. Completely forgetting about Jack and leaning in when Mulder stroked her cheek with the pad of this thumb. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He smiled. He knew that was a damn lie. He’d been asking around about her. Dr. Dana Scully with her undergraduate degree in physics, her recent medical degree, her good standing amongst the faculty at Quantico and how they were predicting nothing but good things for her. Then of course there was her boyfriend Jack Willis from the Robbery Homicide division and who taught tactical training for armed robberies at the academy. The man who would probably have a heart attack before he reached 40 because he was so damn intense.

Still, he wasn’t one to judge. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“I’m ok.” She was feeling a thousand times better already. “Honestly, thank you Fox.”

He couldn’t help laughing and shook his head. “Mulder. I hate Fox, everyone calls me Mulder.”

She didn’t hate the name. “It’s a good name.”

“Yeah, well, not to a bunch of kids. A name like Fox will get you beat up.” He tapped her chin with his thumb and smiled. “Food,” he said. 

She nodded so they made their way to the table and began tucking in: him to all the dumplings and chicken chow mein and her to the sichuan pork and noodle soup.

“You know, he only had positive things to say about you,” she smirked.

He rolled his eyes playfully, sipped his beer and said, “Oh I bet.”

“He seems to admire you, told me I should seek you out.”

He wondered if that was why she’d called him. “He’s just trying to play games, trying to draw me into a case I’m already involved with.”

God she was starving, she practically drank her soup and inhaled the bold spicy pork. He pushed the remainder of his food towards her. It was a good thing he’d already eaten tonight as she hoovered it up, she practically hugged him again in thanks.

“Why does he feel such an affinity?” she asked around a mouthful.

He shrugged. They just happened to get on. They had a lot in common. “Because I can talk to him on his level, because I caught him and because he’s afraid of me.”

She looked up, thought about it and realised it was probably true. “Why?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s in my nature.”

He grinned, sipped more beer. “Then you’ll make a good Agent.”


	10. Chapter 10

Some time later, when all the food was finished, the beer forgotten after one each and they’d spoken more of her Lecter visit, they sat cross legged on the bed facing each other.

“What do you think he meant by Miss Mofet?”

He’d been wondering that himself, ever since she’d mentioned that Lector had told her to look it up. It seemed strange, a clue almost beneath Lecter. He shrugged. He’d look into it when he went back to work tomorrow. “No idea.”

She had no idea either. It was out of her remit now anyway. Perhaps she could look into it though on the side. “Do you think it has anything to do with Buffalo Bill?”

He nodded slowly. “Knowing Lecter sure, but I wouldn’t worry about it.” A car skidded to a stop outside in the lot and they both looked towards the window and rolled their eyes. This place wasn’t exactly in a nice part of town. Still, it reminded him he should probably get a room for himself. “It’s late, I should let you get some sleep.”

She didn’t even pretend to hide her disappointment as her head sagged, her lip pouted, but really it was for the best. He couldn’t stay here, it was probably unthinkable. She eventually nodded. Watching him stand though she had to reach out a steadying hand as he doubled over in pain. She stood immediately to offer assistance.

“I’m fine,” he gasped out, a little too harshly and shook her hand away. He immediately put his hand up in apology. “Sorry, I just stood up too quickly.”

She pulled back but said, “It’s ok, but let me help, I am a doctor.”

That actually made things worse as he knew she would now poke and prod at him and it was unnecessary. “It’s fine.” He stood taller but it just made it worse and he rubbed his stomach. “I just have a lot of scar tissue.”

“You’re not fine, are you?” Why the hell was he even still working. “Let me see it,” she whispered gently, stepping in closely and looking at where his hand was rubbing. “It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”

He stared at her for a good long minute while he thought about it. He really wasn’t keen, he hated his scar and he barely knew her after all, and he didn’t want her getting the wrong idea about him, but she was a doctor and she might have some half decent pain meds on her. If she did, he reasoned, he might get a good night's sleep for once. He nodded. He reached around and pulled his shirt up over his back and off, it flew onto the bed.

She practically drank him in. Acting and being professional was something she’d always taken immense pride in, not showing emotion when dealing with a patient was the first thing she’d mastered in med school. That said, however, Mulder was a very good looking man anyway and now his shapely chest and abs were doing things to her that she hadn’t felt in a long while. She hoped it was the beer or the emotion of the day otherwise she was on very dangerous ground indeed.

Bending over slightly to look at his scar she soon calmed and then frowned. Lecter had butchered him. The thick scar was long, from below his navel up to his rib cage and along for several inches to the left. “He did a real number on you, didn’t he?” she said quietly, touching him gently at the belly button, through the soft hair there. She felt him nod and looked up. There was something dark in his eyes and she couldn’t read it so she went back to her examination.

It’d healed well, the line had faded to white in most places and while bumpy the bits that were still red weren’t infected. She pressed down, ran her fingers expertly over it from bottom to top and back again, gently touched his rib cage and traced any mark she could see in the low light of the room with soft fingertips. She tried to ignore his occasional gasp, and the fact he smelled divine, as she caressed him. She sighed as she grazed a white mark on his left pectoral muscle, probably from a central line.

She stood up, mere inches from his semi naked body. That dark look hadn’t gone and she felt it mirrored in her own face. Dangerous indeed. She managed to say, “You’re right, it’s probably excess scar tissue pulling on muscle.” Sadly there was nothing that could be done. Any operation to cut it out would result in more scar tissue.

“Told you,” he said, not taking his eyes off of her, while desperately willing his cock to stay down. It’d been a long while since anyone had touched him so intimately, so gently and with such care and he was rather enjoying himself.

“I’m fussy as well as inquisitive.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m sorry this happened to you.”

God she was biting her lip and the way her long hair was framing her face made him curse the gods, she was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen. “Me too, he said.” But at least he wasn’t crapping in a bag anymore he mused to himself, and at least he was still working. He’d almost had to retire. She seemed to step even closer and then touched him again, just below his belly button with her thumbs, drawing a little circle. If she kept that up, he really would be waving from three places.

“You could try some moisturiser and do some stretches each morning, some gentle exercise,” she said. “It might make things a little less tight.”

“God…”

She smiled at his reaction and her own unintended double entendre. She was tired and lopsided and she was glad of his company and he seemed to be enjoying being with her. She needed to know there was good in the world, she needed to feel human again, she needed to rid herself of Miggs and Lector and Chilton and Skinner and the dirt of this assignment in a physical sense but she nevertheless let sense kick in and fetched his t-shirt for him. He smiled gratefully and quickly dressed.

“Thank you.”

“What for?” he asked.

Sitting on the bed while he adjusted himself she wanted to say ‘everything’. She doubted anyone else would rush out here in the middle of the night because she was having a crisis. “For coming out here, for trusting me with your body.”

He delicately sat himself down next to her. “Yeah well, I thought you might have some good meds,” he joked.

“Oh I do,” she smirked in reply. Reaching over to the jumble that was her personal belongings she pulled out her bathroom bag and tossed him a small vial she kept with her in case of emergencies.

He took one eagerly, didn’t even care what it was. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“You don’t like it much do you?”

“My body? Not really.”

“It’s fine, honestly,” she said under the hint of a blush. It was more than fine. She wanted to run her hands and mouth all over it.

He nodded and then yawned and stood up, “Well, like I said, I should probably go get a room.”

She didn’t actually want to be on her own. Besides, it was approaching 2am and there was no way he’d get a room here at this time of night. “Stay.”

“Is that a good idea?”

Probably not but she also knew the thing she’d just given him would make him properly drowsy in about half an hour so nothing could happen anyway. “Just to sleep. It’s late.”

He looked at her, at the bed, and then at the crappy 2 seater sofa under the window and shrugged. Soon they were firmly on one side each, him still fully clothed apart from his shoes, socks and gunbelt, as far away as two people could be in such a small space.

“You’re not married are you?” she thought to ask. “I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“Not anymore.” It was complicated. The papers were in his desk waiting to be signed but there was no going back, not when she was on the other side of the world. He felt her roll over to look at him in the dark so he explained, “She’s in Europe doing something or other in intelligence for the Bureau.”

“Sorry.”

“It is what it is.” He actually didn’t care anymore. It’s not like he pined for her now, that had very quickly passed. He understood her reasons for going: she was grieving. He was too though he’d always hidden it better. She was scared too and couldn’t deal with the level of violence his job entailed anymore, thought he should go into white collar crime investigations or some such shit. “She left not long after Lecter sent Dolarhyde to our house.” She’d said ‘enough was enough.’ He didn’t blame her. Didn’t mean he still liked her however. Her leaving had been a betrayal.

She reached over and took his hand in the darkness. “You know for a man who claims to like and admire you, Lecter sure has a strong desire to get rid of you.”

Yawning heavily he nevertheless rolled over to face her, his hand still in hers. “I told you, he’s afraid.” He was afraid too because now he knew there was a connection between Buffalo Bill and Lecter and he would have to deal with the man again. “That and I think he thought he had some moral obligation to get rid of Dolarhyde so set him on me knowing I would do it for him.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah,” he said sleepily, thinking about the looming figure of Dolarhyde charging at him with a knife. It’d missed his face by less than a millimeter. “Only thing that could be done.” It was either Dolarhyde or him and Diana.

Her eyes began to drift closed and the fast pull of sleep was taking over. “Mulder,” she yawned, her hand coming up to cup his face. When he hummed to show he was just about listening she said, “Good night.”

She got a soft snore in reply and smiled, letting sleep finally take her too.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to David Duchovny for coming up with the Ed Wood investigative method in Hollywood AD. Appreciate it dude.

Mulder was glad to be in his office the next day. Glad he could concentrate on work rather than a beautiful woman’s body draped over him in a cheap motel, his hard cock pressed into the inner leg that she'd draped over his crotch in the night. He’d maneuvered her into a better position before she woke and had gone back to his own side but waking up next to her hadn’t been a bad situation to have found himself in.

Breakfast had been awkward though, though not as awkward as it could’ve been, and more on her side than his, and she’d insisted on travelling back by train much to his annoyance but they’d at least parted on a bright smile from him and a shy one from her. She really had nothing to be embarrassed about really. She just needed comfort and reassurance and he was happy and willing to give it.

He looked up from finishing his phone call as the dark slender figure of Reggie Perdue came into his office, not even bothering to knock. It was a good job he liked the man, even if he was thinking of putting up a giant notice on the door to tell people to stay the hell out of his space.

“Reggie, Reggie,” he chanted out of habit as he leaned back in his chair and hung up the phone.

“Stop that.” The other man smiled widely, though he looked preoccupied with something. “I hate it when you do that.”

Reggie began looking around the office, picking at things. Much in the same way that Scully had done. He held up a little shaman’s bowl but Mulder didn’t offer any explanation.

“Something I can help you with Reggie?” There was definitely something on his mind. The case they were working on probably.

Reggie eyed him up and smiled again. “Nah, just coming in here because it helps me think, your messiness frees up my brain to make leaps, you know.”

Mulder chuckled, “The good old Ed Wood investigative method.”

Reggie paused in confusion, halfway between stroking his mustache and picking up Mulder’s replica Mask of Tezcatlipoca, a bug eyed deity with turquoise bands around the eyes and mouth, from the Aztec region. A gift from his favourite cannibal.

“Sorry?” he said.

“You find something so profoundly bad in such a childlike way, in my case an Ed Wood movie, in your case my office, apparently, that it hypnotizes your conscious critical mind and frees up your right brain to make associo-poetic leaps.”

It was Reggies turn to laugh. “Mulder, that’s why I love you. You talk so much shit and yet it somehow makes a lot of sense.” He turned to the mask again, “What the hell is that thing, it’s creepy as hell.”

“It’s The Mask of Tezcatlipoca, an Aztec god of sorcery.” he said standing up and taking it out of Reggie’s hands before he dropped it. “The real one is made of turquoise, pyrite, pine, lignite, human bone and teeth, deer skin, conch shell and agave.”

Reggie wiped his hands desperately on his trouser leg, he was horrified. “Human bone?”

“This is a replica, I had it tested.”

He wasn't much appeased. “What the hell’s it for?”

“He’s not ‘for’ anything.” He put it back on it’s shelf and rattled off, “But he is associated with a wide range of concepts, including the night sky, the night winds, hurricanes, the north, the earth, obsidian, enmity, discord, rulership, divination, temptation, jaguars, sorcery, beauty, war and strife. His name in the Nahuatl language is often translated as ‘Smoking Mirror’ and alludes to his connection to obsidian, the material from which mirrors were made in Mesoamerica and which were used for shamanic rituals and prophecy.” Lecter had said it was the ‘embodiment of change through conflict'. Now more than ever did he feel that meaning.

“Riiiight,” he drew out and drawled. He took a seat on the wonky chair and picked up a book. “'A social history of the paranormal', seriously?”

Mulder was getting bored of Reggie picking through his stuff. It was one thing to come in here to help him think, it was another to sneer at his beliefs. He took the book out of Reggie’s hand and put it back down on the desk. “Just a pet project I’m working on.”

“Not thinking of leaving us already?” he asked, concerned. “You’ve only been here a few months.”

“No,” he said truthfully. Not yet anyway. He had an interest in the paranormal, he even had enough material to open his own department here since he’d found those X-Files in the basement, but he hadn’t lobbied anyone about it. Yet. He wasn’t sure if he would. He was still only at the thinking stage.

“Good,” Reggie replied, relieved. “You wanna go ghostbusting, you might want to start with I.J. Miggs.”

He sat back down and stared at his boss in confusion. “Lecter’s neighbour. He’s dead?”

Reggie nodded slowly. “Lecter talked him into swallowing his own tongue.”

“Jesus.” He picked up a pen and immediately threw it down again, shocked. Yet he wasn’t. That was probably more shocking. Lecter being Lecter didn’t shock him at all. It bothered him, yes, but it didn’t shock and that in itself was shocking.

“Yeah.”

“Does Scully know?”

“No, why would she need to know that?”

“Lots of reasons.” He could think of at least 3.

“Are you going to tell her?”

“Maybe. Have you seen her interim report yet?”

Reggie shrugged. “I believe it’s with Skinner.” He looked around Mulder’s desk, at the paperwork and phone books and asked, “What’s all this?”

“I’ve been looking into the Mofet thing she told me about.” He’d not stopped thinking about it, and neither had Reggie since he’d passed on the information, and now he knew he’d solved it.

“Ah I’ve been going over that all morning and came up with nothing. Lecter altered or destroyed most of his patient histories and notes prior to capture so there’s no record of anyone named Mofet.”

“Right, he did,” offered Mulder with a small smile and a gleam in his eyes, these were the games he liked to play, “but I thought the ‘yourself’ reference was too hokey for Lecter, not his usual level of gamesmanship and mind-play, so I figured he's lived in Baltimore for a while and on a hunch I looked in the phone book,” he lifted up the Yellow Pages to emphasise, “and there's a "Your Self" storage facility right outside of downtown Baltimore. I called the owner, the unit was leased for ten years, pre-paid in full. The contract is in the name of a Miss Hester Mofet.”

“Some hunch!” Reggie was impressed and his tone reflected it. “Why don’t I just come to you with all my problems. I’ll send someone out there to…”

“No, I’m going myself,” he said in a rush. He was finally excited by this case again. It was finally moving in a forward direction. “I suddenly need to get out of the office for a while.” Boy was that the truth.

He might just take Scully with him too if he could get her to skip class.


	12. Chapter 12

In between trying to figure out the Mofet clue and writing up her full report she was having to squeeze in her normal classes, research time, exercise and the firing range. It was a welcome distraction, a relief almost and she soon found herself coming back down to earth on a busy blur of normality.

She hadn’t spoken to Mulder since he’d dropped her off at the station and while she was sad about that she was also happy she didn’t have to face him again after their night in the same bed. It was entirely innocent of course, baring his impressive erection pressing into her back at one point, but she felt guilty and like she should never have called him in the first place. She'd overburdened him and it wasn't fair. She actually felt worse over that than Lecter and Miggs now.

Still, what was done was done and she had to move past it. Besides, Marty Neal was here now watching her shoot at the in-door range. She didn’t know why but given he was one of the best shots in their class she always welcomed his feedback so didn’t complain.

She took up her combat stance, wrestled her sound-muffling headset into position and on the buzzer squeezed off several rounds into a moving paper target as it rushed towards her from the back of the hall. By the time the silhouetted paper man arrived in front of her his chest was full of tightly grouped holes and she beamed. She raised her weapon though, a Sig Sauer 226, and offered it one final emphatic shot to the forehead.

“I think he’s dead,” Marty offered sarcastically. Taking his own ear protectors off and letting them rest around his neck he nevertheless congratulated her on her effort as he pulled the silhouette down and took her own ear protectors off. “You did well.”

“Apart from the overkill?”

“Always best to be on the safe side,” he joked. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

She laughed appreciatively. “Anything I can improve?”

He put the paper aside and said, “Not really.” Then thought about it and added, “Well maybe you could change your combat stance a little, you have a weaver stance and it’s going to leave you exposed in the real world. You’re right handed so you expose your left armpit. It’s not covered by body armour when you stand that way.”

“And that’s an entryway to the heart.”

“Right. Try an isosceles stance.” 

He demonstrated it and she had to admit it did seem a little better and felt more natural. 

“Thanks.” She packed her stuff up, ready to head over to the library. “You know if there’s anything I can help you out with I’m always here.”

“Well,” he drawled in his dry southern Californian accent. He ran a hand over his blond military grade buzz cut and chewed his lip conspiratorially, like they were about to share a big secret. Her heart sank as he said, “You could tell me how you got to interview Hannibal Lecter, I’d like some of that action myself.”

She groaned and looked at him disbelievingly. She didn’t think it would remain a secret for long but she would’ve at least liked to have filed her report first. “I told Reyes not to tell…”

He put his hand up to stop her, “She didn’t say anything. I have a contact upstairs and he mentioned something about a student interviewing Lecter. Given you were missing all day yesterday it didn’t take a genius to work it out who it was.”

Of course he did. Marty Neal’s father was a District Attorney who had strong connections within the justice department and the FBI. It was only a matter of time before he used his connections to slime his way up the ladder.

“I can’t help you Marty.”

“Oh come on Scully, this would mean a lot to me. It’d look really good on my resume if I got to help out with something big while still a trainee agent.”

Ah so it was less about actually helping and more about servicing his own ambitions she thought. Trust Marty to only think about himself. “You’ve been working with organized crime, I heard you did a good job.”

He shrugged, “Yeah but it’s not where the headlines are at the moment.”

He was right about that. For the longest time now, at least since the mid 70s, serial crime was the hot topic. It was where everyone wanted to make a name for themselves, especially as year in / year out they were discovering more and more dangerous individuals that people wanted to write papers about and use to advance the nature of human understanding.

Resigned, she said, “AD Skinner assigned me it due to my medical degree and thought I could talk to Lecter on a professional level.” His shoulders slumped and he looked like he was about to cry. That was too bad. In the end she did take pity on him, just a little. “Why don’t you talk to Reggie Purdue in violent crimes, see if there's something you could volunteer for, I know they have a mountain of paperwork down there and could probably use the help.”

That seemed to perk him up and he was quickly on his way, much to her relief.


	13. Chapter 13

So afraid someone else would bring up Lecter to her she’d gone and hidden in the library after her range session, even dinner had been a hastily snatched sandwich and a cup of yogurt. Sure there were still plenty of people about, several of her classmates studying for an upcoming forensics exam on fingerprints they all had, but they all knew not to disturb her.

She’d mostly finished her full report for Skinner and was almost ready to file it, not that she had much hope it would be of any use to anyone, it wasn’t like he’d done anything other than grunt over her interim report, and was now sat in front of a Microfiche scanning 35mm film for interesting newspaper articles on Lecter and making notes. There was so much she wanted to talk to Mulder about, so much she wanted to say, she was driven to understand, but she was conscious of overburdening him mentally and physically and he was busy. She’d forwarded her interim report to him too, even though he knew everything in it already.

She had to know more though if she was going to figure out that Mofet clue. It seemed urgent. It seemed like a good idea to be as informed as possible so she took in the images skirting through her vision at speed from The Washington Dispatch and Baltimore Sentinel, headlines and bylines that screamed: ‘Renowned Psychiatrist Charged in Murders’, ‘The Doctor of Death Cooked his Victims for Gourmet Meals Then Served Them to His Friends. Michael Ronboz of City Council Among Those at Dinner Table’, ‘FBI Agent Still in Critical Condition’, ‘FBI Agent’s Damning Testimony’, ‘Lecter Guilty!’

She was so engrossed that when Reyes tapped her on the shoulder she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Jesus!”

“Sorry,” she laughed and put her hands up in mock surrender. “You missed Fourth Amendment Law, unlawful seizures. It was real juicy stuff.”

“Oh I bet,” Scully replied, her voice low so as not to disturb the people around them, and joked, “How was your nap?”

“Heaven!”

They both snorted a laugh before Reyes asked, “Where were you anyway, I haven’t seen you since you left for Baltimore.”

“Well between pleading with a crazy man, which was pretty much a bust by the way, with come all over my face, and writing up my report,” she didn’t mention Marty or Mulder, “I’ve been trying to make sense of everything.”

“Come on your face? Dana, just what exactly have you been up to?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, “You don’t want to know.”

Reyes stared at her, wondering how much of what she’d said was true. She laughed anyway and quipped, “Damn, wish I had time for a social life.”

She grinned before sobering up, “Did you want to go over the fingerprint stuff for the test?”

Reyes shook her head, “No, I came over because you have a phone call.” She indicated to a bank of phones near the checkout desk. “It’s Agent Mulder.”

“Mulder?” she asked disbelievingly. At her friend's affirmation she grabbed her yellow legal pad, she didn’t even bother pushing her chair back as she rushed to the bank of phones, leaving Reyes looking exasperated. Why hadn’t she told her straight away!

She picked up the receiver, her voice more breathy than she intended, “Agent Mulder?” There was a long pause and she didn’t think he was even there anymore but he found the phone when she repeated his name, “Mulder?”

“Sorry, I’m here,” he said, still a little far away and she heard him pick up the phone and he became clearer. “I was sorting out some travel documents.”

“Off somewhere interesting?”

“Hopefully. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

The bottom of her stomach fell away nervously and she had to make sure nobody was listening. They weren’t but even so she moved to the side of the booth to shield their words. “About last night?” He made a noise that suggested he’d said ‘huh’ and she breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t ready for a conversation where she’d broken protocol by not only sharing a room with a fellow agent but a bed too. Neither had been off duty and she didn’t think her bosses would be so kind about it, especially if they got wind of her relationship with Jack too.

“Not unless you wanna talk about how sleeping in jeans is bad for your hips.”

She chuckled, “Not really. What can I help you with, the Mofet clue?”

There was a pause before he said, “I’ve already solved it.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, um, it was actually pretty simple in the end. What did Lecter say to you?”

“Look deep within yourself, Dr. Scully. Go Seek out Miss Mofet, an old patient of mine…”

“Right,” he interrupted. “What do you think it means?”

She frowned, she’d been wondering that for a long time and she’d come up with nothing. “I don’t know, I can’t find any reference to a Miss Mofet in what remains of his patient files and I can’t find anything on the FBI mainframe either.”

“You won’t, he covered his tracks pretty well. Look within Your Self Scully. Your Self. It’s a storage facility in Baltimore where Lecter had his practise. Pre paid in full for 10 years by one Miss Hester Mofet.”

“You’re kidding me,” she said in astonishment and writing the full name down on her pad. Miss Hester Mofet. How did she miss that! “Who’s Hester Mofet then?”

“I think she’s a figment of Lecter’s imagination.”

She wondered if it could be an anagram of some kind. 15 letters. She couldn’t think. A word? No. 3 words? Maybe? She balanced her pad on the phonebook self and hovered her pen over the letters. ‘Miss’, she decided to put that to one side as it was already a complete word. She just needed to rearrange the other letters.

“You still there?”

“Hmmm yeah, just thinking.”

“There’s something else.” 

His voice was quiet and it made her pay attention again. “What?” she asked, still staring at the letters. “What is it Agent Mulder?” she asked urgently. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

“Miggs is dead.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her mouth opened to say something and it didn’t come. She was speechless, aware she was probably gaping like a fish, until she managed a, “Dead? How?” about a minute later.

A heavy sigh came and then an explanation. “They heard Lecter whispering to him all afternoon and Miggs crying. They found him at bed check. He'd swallowed his own tongue.”

“Oh.” Was she upset? She wasn't sure. She held no personal grief. She felt no anger anymore either despite what Miggs had done, he was sick. Was she sorry someone was dead? Yes. She was a doctor, she valued life, no matter how deprived. “I just... I don't know how to feel about this.”

“You don't have to feel any way about it. Lecter did it to amuse himself. Look, I know it got ugly but you didn’t do anything wrong.”

She knew that now. She still glared at her paper angrily. “I know.”

“Good. Put it behind you and move on.”

“Who was he?”

“Miggs?” he sighed audibly, letting her know she should move beyond Miggs. Still, he answered, “He killed two little girls. Diminished responsibility. He suffered from multiple personality disorder. Don’t pay it any attention.”

“Ok.” She had other things to think about anyway. Miss… Miss. Miss what? She could get ‘forest’ and ‘theme’ out of the remaining words and put a line through them immediately. Miss Forest Theme / Miss Theme Forest made no damn sense. ‘Rest’ was in there as was ‘me’ and ‘the’. She frowned. If this was an anagram she was surprised Lector hadn’t used the word ate or something else to do with eating and food.

“Good, what are you doing at the moment?”

“Trying to figure out who Hester Mofet is, why?”

“No, I mean you’re not due in any classes?”

“No.” Miss Me ___ Rest? No. God. “Not until tomorrow now.”

“Excellent, I’ve booked a car. We’re heading back up to Baltimore.”

She looked up from her scribbles, “Excuse me?”

“We’re going back up to Baltimore. I’ve requisitioned a car we leave in an hour.”

Her mouth fell open. She couldn’t possibly go back there, she had things to do here. “That’s a field job Mulder, it’s outside the scope of my assignment. I have a test tomorrow.”

He snorted. “I’ve already spoken to Skinner, and he’s going to speak to your instructors, and your badge doesn’t run out for a few days yet. Don’t you want to follow this lead to the end, it was you who Lecter gave it to after all.”

Well, that was debatable. It was given to her yes but something about it told her it was also intended for Mulder too. Regardless, yes she did want to see this through until the end. To work in the field was a thrilling prospect. To follow the clues with Mulder was even more exciting. She had to ask though, “Why me?”

“You have the necessary expertise and I think Lecter trusts you now. Besides, I think we can work well together.”

It was all she needed to hear. “I’ll meet you outside the main building in an hour.”

She hung up and it was only then that the anagram jumped up at her. ‘Miss the rest of me’. Miss the rest of me! How had she not seen it before! She didn’t know what it meant and she daredn't guess but she would tell Mulder as soon as she saw him.


	14. Chapter 14

It hadn’t taken her long to pack but she’d decided to pack heavy after the Miggs incident just to be on the safe side. She’d also picked out two of everything and everything was from the tattier end of her wardrobe as she couldn’t afford to lose another nice suit jacket. She didn’t know what they were about to walk into but like a good girl scout she wanted to be prepared.

Her father would be proud.

Or perhaps not.

She picked at a photo pinned to the cork noticeboard above her bed. It was the last family photo of the Scully clan taken before she’d announced her intention to join the FBI, a get together for Bill Jr’s latest promotion and they’d all made the effort, even Melissa who was prone to disappearing for months on end (and who really didn’t have time for the bluster of Bill Jr or their parents) and Charles who preferred the company of his own wife and children to there’s nowadays (not that she blamed him. The Scully family could feel like an unforgiving place at times). They were all grinning happily under a hot summer sky.

Her father looked the proudest of them all, his smile the widest. It occurred to her that that day was the last time she’d seen him smile at her and it made her sad. They’d barely spoken since. Most of their conversations nowadays were arguments and episodes of him shaking his head in disappointment and refusing to look her in the eye. She doubted he’d turn up for her graduation.

She knew she shouldn’t let it get to her, he’d get over it eventually because he still loved her, but it did, it greatly distressed her actually. They’d always been so close before, taking trips, talking about their interests and hobbies and she could still sit for hours watching him craft something in the garage, they still even read aloud to one another on occasion. Now it was all gone and now she keenly understood what Melissa and Charles had been going through for years. In fact the only one of the four her father had time for at the moment was Bill Jr.

All fathers have ambitions for their children, mothers too, but Bill Scully Sr took it to extremes, if you didn’t do as he expected or fall into line you would damn well know about it for a long time to come. Melissa had been the first to fall foul of the man with her decision to go to an alternative college to study spiritualism and new age practises, Charles was next for rejecting the rigorous dogma of catholicism and for marrying a much older woman with two children already. That they were both happy and Melissa made good money with her ‘healing’ and ‘soul reading’ and Charles with his teaching didn’t seem to matter. They weren’t doing what their father wanted and that was that.

Now it was her turn to face his wrath and boy did she feel it right down to the bone. She was good and dutiful, thoughtful and intelligent, she was Starbuck bound by obligations to obey her Captain Ahab. Now seemingly she was cast adrift and alone at sea, living out what her father still thought of as a ‘rebellion’. She’d crossed a line by entering into the armed forces, the police. Women, specifically Scully women, were not supposed to do that. According to her father she was supposed to move into family practise after med school and find a man to marry.

That she wasn’t doing those things was a ‘rebellion’. 

She hated that word and she’d heard it a lot since she’d left medical school, everyone thought she was trying to prove a point. Her parents, Daniel, Jack, Lecter…

It was all wrong. She wasn’t resisting anything, she wasn’t fighting any great personal injustice and she certainly wasn’t looking to defy authority. It was a stupid word that didn’t suit her at all. They were all wrong. It wasn’t rebellion she was seeking, it was approval. It was daring to want more, wanting to be treated as an equal, wanting to live her life in her own way.

It was exactly what Mulder was doing. He was trusting her abilities, her training, her opinions. He wanted her with him because she could add something of value to the Buffalo Bill case. It was exhilarating. It was exactly what she’d been seeking for a very long time.

And now she was going back to Baltimore.

She zipped up her suitcase and got ready to leave but not before she grabbed the letter she’d written Jack and stuffed it in an envelope. Giving him a letter might be the cowards way out but at least it would be short and sweet and he’d understand.


	15. Chapter 15

The drive up to Baltimore was going much too fast for her liking. She was thoroughly enjoying their time together. They had some god awful World Series game from 1985 on the car cassette player that Mulder insisted on playing because it was his car requisition and also because ‘baseball was his life’ (and because the specific game made him angry apparently, something to do with a controversial call by an umpire that gifted the game to Kansas City - she couldn’t remember and she wasn’t sure she cared. Baseball was not her sport) and in between chatting about their lives and what food to eat later he was quizzing her from the passenger seat about fingerprints.

“What is the name given to the examination of fingerprints?” he asked to start. It was an easy one.

She rolled her eyes. “Dactyloscopy.” She theatrically yawned while he cracked a sunflower seed between his teeth. “Did you know Dactyloscopy comes from the Greek word ‘daktylos’ meaning finger…”

“And ‘skopein’ meaning to examine, yes I did know that.” He threw the shell of his seed out of the window and swallowed the chewed remains. “Seed?” he offered, holding out the bag.

“No, next question Mr know-it-all.”

“I know you are, I said you are, so what am I then?” he singsonged childishly and smiled up at her and she grinned back. They’d already developed an easy rapport and it made him happy. “What causes fingerprints to be left behind when we touch things?”

These were too easy she thought, watching an easy shower of snow start to fall outside and turning on the wipers. She didn’t know why she’d been so worried about the test if the questions were this easy. “It’s due to the natural oils in our skin. The skin's sebaceous glands produce natural oils which, together with the salts produced by our sweat glands, leave a fingerprint residue when we touch most objects.”

“Well done Dr. Scully,” he said, emphasising the word doctor.

She grinned complacently. When it came to forensics she did have an advantage. “What can I tell you?”

He would have to think of something to challenge her with. For the time being he asked. “In which country was the first case of a criminal conviction based on fingerprint evidence?”

“Argentina In 1892, Juan Vucetich, a police researcher in Argentina, used fingerprints to prove that Francesca Rojas murdered her two children by taking her thumb print and matching it to a bloody thumbprint left behind on a door. When confronted with the evidence, the mother broke down and admitted killing her children because they stood in the way of her marriage to a young lover. She was subsequently convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment,” she said triumphantly.

He slammed the book closed and looked at her mischievously. “Ok Einstein,” he said playfully, knowing what her undergraduate thesis was about and given the look she was giving him she now knew he’d been looking into her background. “Which animal is said to have fingerprints virtually indistinguishable from those of human beings?”

“What?” she startled. He had to be kidding, right? “That’s a joke surely?”

“Nope.” It wasn’t a joke or a trick question. It was something they asked every year on the test, or a variation of it anyway. She looked stumped and he sat smugly chomping on his seeds. On the tape Dorrel ‘Whitey’ Herzog was calling on rookie reliever Todd Worrell to relieve setup man Ken Dayley. “Want me to tell you the answer.”

She thought about it some more but she was truely perplexed. “A penguin?”

He laughed loudly, “Since when do penguins have fingers?” She poked her tongue out at his ribbing and at his seated version of a penguin moving it’s flippers. He soon decided to put her out of her misery. “Koalas.”

“Seriously?” He had to be joking.

“They have ridges on their fingers which create fingerprints almost identical to those of human beings meaning that koala fingerprints can be confused for human fingerprints at a crime scene.”

“It’s unlikely that would ever happen.” She would forever remain sceptical about a murderous koala framing a human being for their crime or the other way round.

“Yeah well there are some differences,” he said trying to remember from his own time at Quantico, when he’d come across the information in an obscure anthropology textbook. He was the only one to get the question right that year. “For example, Koalas have two thumbs on each hand and they also have claws instead of fingernails. Human beings have ridges over all of their palms, whereas koalas only have ridges over part of their palms. Not to mention the fact that koalas are rarely found at crime scenes.”

They shared a soft giggle and then he told her to take the next exit off the freeway.

“So, are you ever going to explain ‘Fox’ to me?” She looked at him, he was rolling his eyes. He’d probably been asked it a lot.

“It’s nothing exciting. My father works for the State Department. During World War two he worked with some Navajo code talkers on some project or other and it was the name of one of the Navajo Indian’s he was partnered with.” Something like that anyway. It was a nice story but he still made his parents call him Mulder as a teenager.

Smiling, because it was a sweet story, she nevertheless changed the subject. “What will happen with Lecter, will he be punished for Miggs?”

“Nah, they’ll take away his privileges, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” she was incredulous. There must be more they could do. “He talked someone into killing themselves.”

“Try proving it, besides what’s the point of adding years to the sentence of a man who will never see the light of day again anyway?”

She supposed he had a point.


	16. Chapter 16

They’d made it to the Your Self storage facility just before the last streaks of orange and purple had disappeared behind the dusky warning of impending nighttime and ominous grey clouds. The only light now came from a crappy street light some distance away and a large and loud neon sign, streaked with rain and the dust of decades of exhaust fumes.

It was still snowing and Mulder was cursing the fact he hadn’t brought an umbrella with him. Mr Yow, the storage facility owner, had and he wasn’t sharing it and it annoyed him, especially as Scully was starting to look like a drowned cat and needed the cover. He wasn’t a chauvinist, someone who thought they had to look after someone just because they were a woman, she was his equal and perfectly capable of doing that herself thank you very much, but he was a man who believed in manners if nothing else and she clearly had the same thoughts as she was giving him side-eye regarding the other man.

He went to the car, circumventing Yow’s giant black listing Lincoln Oldsmobile, to grab his camera and some torches while Scully talked to the other man.

“So, no one’s been here since… 1980?” she asked, looking at the closed roll up metal door, itself situated amongst a long line of metal doors. It looked rusted to fuck and she didn’t know how they were going to get in, even the hefty padlock looked too weather beaten to open with a key, not that they had one yet.

“There or thereabouts,” Yow croaked. “As I told your boyfriend on the phone.”

“Oh, he’s not…” What did it matter? They’d already shown their I.Ds. He would believe whatever he wanted. She smiled at the old fragile looking Chinese man, he did not look happy. “Do you have the key?”

He pulled off a large round hoop from his waist and passed it to her. “It’s on there.”

Oh that’s helpful, she thought while taking it. “Thanks.”

“You know privacy is a great concern to my customers, if they get wind of the FBI sniffing around…” he worried, his Chinese accent becoming more pronounced as he fussed.

She tried to be reassuring but thought that anyone worrying about privacy knew their clients were hiding something illegal. “Not to worry Mr Yow, we won’t be here long and nobody has to know.” She smiled at him. “We won’t disturb anything, I promise.”

He seemed happy with that at least. “Good, I don’t like the gate unlocked for too long at night.”

She looked at the large double layered hurricane fences both topped with barbed wire. The gate was open but given the low light Yow had nothing to worry about as unless you came really close you wouldn’t know it was open. “We’re FBI Mr Yow, we’ll defend you if anyone tries to enter unannounced and we promise you we won’t be long.”

“Just think of it as taking pride in doing your civic duty,” Mulder said, coming back. He handed Scully a torch and began taking pictures of the gate, lockup, the padlock, the neon sign. “We’ll be gone before you know it, it’s a promise.” He had no inclination to be here longer than necessary.

Sifting through the smaller keys Scully found one that she thought might fit and tested it. To her delight it worked and she exclaimed a soft, “Hah!” much to Mulder’s amusement. 

However, it soon transpired that getting the lock off was the easy part. Getting the door open was proving impossible. All three of them took turns tugging on the handle, trying to get their fingers underneath the bottom, and lifting it with their backs while someone worked the handle. It wouldn’t budge, not an inch, and they were all soon feeling sweaty and gross.

“We could return tomorrow, with my son. Or perhaps some workmen?” Offered Yow, puffing hard and wiping his brow. He looked as exhausted as they felt.

Scully crossed back to their rental, turned on the headlights, quickly apologizing as the light dazzled the two men who instantly shielded their eyes, and went to the trunk. She soon found what she was looking for: a jack. It might work if they could jam a sliver of the plate under the lip of the metal roller. “We could use this,” she said when she got back.

“Good idea,” Mulder nodded, impressed at her ingenuity and pocketing his torch. They needed to get inside this lockup and they needed to do it now. Both of them were on edge about it. 

She set the jack in place, kicking it into position at the centre, and began to crank the handle; brushing off Yow in the process who came to help. She didn’t need it and he looked to be pushing 70, that was before she took into account his exhaustion from the last activity. She didn’t want to demonstrate her CPR skills in the slushy snow.

The door squealed horrifically and protested at every crank. After about 10 strong pumps she’d succeeded in getting it open about 6 inches. It wasn’t enough. She mopped her brow and reluctantly moved aside for Mulder to have a go.

“Are you sure?” she asked, full of concern.

“Stop fussing,” he replied, defiantly getting into position. He’d been cleared for active duty. He continued to ace every fitness exam. He just hurt occasionally. Today was not one of those days. “I’ll be fine.” 

He pumped the handle, his cold wet fingers occasionally slipping but he managed. Eventually he succeeded in wedging it open about 20 inches in total, it refused to go any further and was now firmly stuck in place. It wasn’t great but they should both be able to squeeze in underneath. He bent down but couldn’t see in very far, it was pitch black. It stunk too: musty, old. And he thought he could hear the squeak of scuttling vermin.

“Should be enough,” she opined, taking the offered torch. She took her coat off in preparation and hung it on the jack, Mulder did the same once he’d put the camera around his neck. “Want me to go first?”

He wasn’t about to argue. “Sure.”

She looked down at the small gap again and bit her lip. It would be an effort, especially for him, and she nearly had second thoughts but she was determined to find out what Lecter had in here. She did have one thought though and whispered, “Don’t we need a search warrant?”

“Probably,” he joked but at her disapproving scowl he sighed and put her mind at rest, whispering, “anything connected to Lecter is still covered by a very wide ranging warrant and the Baltimore field office knows we’re out here.”

Thank god, she thought. Fired from her job before she was even qualified would not look good in her part of the family newsletter. She sat on the ground, amongst the cigarette ends, the sodden leaves and takeaway containers, the water of unsettled snow seeping into her trousers as she did so. She grimaced and swept the room with her flashlight, making sure there was nothing blocking her entrance. She could make out boxes, covered bits of furniture and the shadowy outline of what looked to her like a classic car under the drape of a big American flag. “There’s a car in here,” she said. “Tires are long flat though.” She looked first at Mulder and then at Yow as they both bent down, either side of her, to look.

“Smells like mice,” Yow said annoyed. “If they’re in there, they’ll be in the other units. You hear them?” They could and they all recoiled as one ran out, passing right by Scully as it disappeared into the night. “You’re not seriously going in there, are you?”

They both turned to look at him incredulously but ignored his comment. Scully lay flat on the ground and began shimmying under the heavy brown door. She paused and pulled her head out, looked at Mulder. “You know,” she said, trying to appear nonchalant but failing, “if this door should fail with me under it, or I get locked in forever, tell my mom and dad I love them.”

He wanted to laugh, to tell her she was being silly, but given she had about several hundred pounds of steel and aluminium hovering above her he’d give her a pass. He’d be nervous too, facing that and then unknown inside. “Scouts honour.”

She slid in a little further, using a wiggle motion to move. It wasn’t very graceful but she didn’t have time to worry about how she was looking. She almost had her legs fully under when she felt the rusty jagged edge of an old nail catch her bent knee. “Damn it!” she bristled, her hand immediately going to the rip in her pants. There was blood when she pulled her hand back, though thankfully not much.

Mulder was immediately down and resting on his haunches with a hand to her shoulder to see if she was hurt. “Are you ok?”

“No!” she growled sadly. “I hurt my pants.”

He laughed, relieved she was ok. Her clothes were not having a great time lately. “What do you see?” he asked as she disappeared.

“Not a lot,” came her muffled reply.

He saw her light come on and shine towards him so he lay down and maneuvered his way inside, though not before Yow had given him some advice about tucking the legs of his pants into his socks so as not to catch on anything or invite mice to run up his leg. He told Yow to go and wait in his car and he was only too happy to oblige.

He looked at the gap and groaned, his fate sealed.


	17. Chapter 17

Once he’d squirmed inside, careful to avoid the nail trap she’d snagged herself on, he quickly stood, dusted himself down and promptly sneezed. It was worse than he thought. There was a lot of dust about. He grabbed some latex from his pocket.

“Ok?” she asked, watching him nod that he was. Shining her light about, her beam caught more cobwebs than she dared to count and a mountain of boxes. The room was huge and went back for some way. “Where do we even start?”

If she didn’t know, he didn’t either. They were looking at a needle in a haystack. They didn’t even know what specifically they were after. “Beats me,” he mumbled, pulling a sheet off an antique tall boy with his newly gloved hands. It reminded him of the one his grandmother owned.

“That’s gorgeous,” she said, impressed and hovering her hands over the seamless mahogany. Someone had paid a lot of money for it. She went to open one of the doors and felt a soft tap to her hand. Looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a daring set to her jaw she asked, “We can’t touch anything?” After all they’d been through to get in here! Her knee still stung.

He laughed as he thought of his Oma, his granny Kuipers, “Als de aap komt spelen, is er geen taart voor jou.”

“Excuse me?”

“If the monkey comes out to play, there will be no cake for you.” He shrugged and opened the door for her, both disappointed to find it was empty. “My mum’s family are dutch, I’m not allowed to touch my Oma’s things.”

She had to laugh, and not just at his propensity for pronouncing words like mom the English way. “You clumsy Mulder?”

“Well you break enough expensive heirloom china you get a reputation.” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a spare pair of latex gloves for her. “Put these on.”

She did and they covered the tallboy back up and began their search. “Beautiful piano.” She stood admiring an upright Steinway Model K she’d spotted. It had to be worth a small fortune. The long left uncovered keys were somewhat yellow now indicating they were true ivory, and covered in a ton of mouse crap, but it was a real showpiece. In fact there were so many beautiful things in here, it was a shame they were locked away, being unappreciated. “There’s some really wonderful items here.”

“It’s junk, the lot of it.” He took a few photos anyway, he wanted to document everything.

How could he say that? “Mulder this stuff is beautiful.”

“Eh, we can hit some yard sales while we’re out here if you want,” he snarked, disinterested. He opened up a box on top of a large stack but it just seemed to contain ugly animal tschotskes. “I grew up in a house full of beautiful things that couldn’t be touched, it was like a prison.” He paused, thought about it and corrected himself. “Well a museum anyway.” He shined his torch on her face as she moved to another area. “I suppose you lived in one too?”

She ignored his comment about yard sales, he was being a philistine, and shook her head, no. “We moved around too much to have antiques. My father’s in the navy.”

“Navy bratt huh,” he smiled when she shrugged unapologetically. A mouse dropped onto the piano, striking some uncoordinated notes, and causing them both to clutch their chests in fright. “For fucks sake,” he muttered hissing after the little beasty.

She laughed nervously as she went further into the room, her flashlight catching a stunning rocking horse in the process. As she looked around she realised it would probably take them weeks to go through everything properly. “You know it’s weird...” she said trailing off. She picked up a polished jade frog out of a box. There was so much bric-a-brac in here, someone could open a store.

“What is?”

She felt like she was violating someone. These items had been placed in here carefully and for private reasons and here they were destroying that calm with their own values and opinions. “How we’re going through all this stuff and yet it’s someone's life. Doesn’t it feel weird to you?”

He felt more exhilarated by it actually. He might not appreciate the craftsmanship of some of the items, or that they were worth anything, but he enjoyed this part of his job. It was like seeing how the other half lived. It made him feel somewhat normal; that the crap he collected wasn’t nearly as bad as the crap other people accumulated. “It’s like stepping back in time I guess.”

That wasn’t what she meant, she meant that she felt like an outsider, an observer, a historian looking back at the past with no real connection to any of it, so she passed it and did another wide angle arch with her light. “I think we should concentrate on larger items.”

“Like the car?” he called out.

“Yeah, we’ll work our way to it.”

A voice from outside shouted, “Are you ok in there?” It was Mr Yow come to check on them. They both shouted that they were and he mumbled something and left again.

The further they ventured the more packed it became and at one point he was pressed into her back as they passed down a narrow corridor between two high industrial shelving units.

“Sorry,” he whispered. She smelt dusty, not as nice as last night but he enjoyed the closeness, her body heat was intoxicating. He’d enjoyed sleeping with her too. He’d booked them into a motel, a nicer one than the Stay-N-Save, but had booked two rooms and wasn’t sure how he felt about it. If it were up to him it would be one room and no clothes.

“It’s ok.” She looked over her shoulder at him coyly, his eyes were that wonderful shade of dangerous again. Her heart pounded in her chest and she knew he was as attracted to her as she was to him. She tried not to think about it or wiggle too much against him as she slid past though. Time and a place and all that. “Why don’t you check out the desk over there?” She said a little too squeakily for her liking. “And I’ll take these shelves?”

He thought he’d much rather stay with her, especially when he saw the ghastly taxidermy owl with its wings outstretched wide and its beak in a silent scream on the desk, but did as asked, this was her rodeo after all but still pouted. There was nothing on the desk though, just reams of blank classical music sheets. “Found anything?” he shouted, turning the owl around so it wasn't gawping at him.

“No,” she shouted. Another twinkling of musical notes echoed and she shone her flashlight through the shelves but it was just mice on the piano again so she went back to her shelves. They were stuffed full with mannequins, some complete, others deformed or missing limbs. It was creepy. She was reminded of a catacomb and shuddered. Her light hit a row of plastic heads and she jumped in fright.

Miss the rest of me. She kept going back to it. Was it something to do with the mannequins? Some of them were dissected after all. Was it something to do with a body? Lecter took and ate body parts after all. What if they stumbled on a pancreas or a tongue or a foot.

“Miss the rest of me…”

“Sorry?” Mulder said from the other side of the shelf. He’d wasted no time in making his way round to the car and was snapping more photos while waiting for her to join him.

“Miss Hester Mofet, it’s an anagram. Miss the rest of me. I was wondering if it had anything to do with these mannequins.”

He smiled. Now that sounded more like Lecter, more like his game playing self. “Miss the rest of me, what do you suppose it means?”

It could mean anything. She was half expecting to stumble upon a boobytrap. Maybe she’d lose her a head in here. Coming round the shelving unit to stand next to him they looked at each other and then the car. There wasn’t much else, in terms of big ticket items, left to search.

They looked at each other curiously and then each took a corner of the moth eaten flag drape, smelling strongly of mouse piss and mold, and swept it back to reveal a big, long and tall 1931 Packard in maroon, dusty despite its covering. Curtains closed off the back passenger compartment and it was backed up against a wall, so they wouldn’t be able to open the boot door, but from what they could see of the steering wheel and dash it all looked original.

“Wow!” It was the most amazing car she’d seen and she wasn’t that much of a car person. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t impress you.”

No, he was impressed. Very much so. It was class personified. A beautiful car indeed. He wasn’t quite sure it beat Grandpa Mulder’s racing green Model T from 1926 but it was close. He tested the drivers door as it was nearest but it wouldn’t budge. Great.

Scully moved around to the other side, pushing more of the tarp out of the way. The handle of the passenger door gave way quickly when she tested it and she indicated he should come round.

“The place taste came to die,” he quipped, opening the door wider to get a good look inside. “Liberace called, he wants his limo back.”

Pouting theatrically she could only agree. The interior was ghastly, someone had kitted it out in lemonade pink frill and a ton of white lace. Pure 1970s Vegas chintz. Using her torch she illuminated more of the interior and leaned in. Over the hiss of stale air there was a familiar smell to the cab but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was exactly. 

The broad backseat came into view and she gasped, pulling out immediately and exclaiming loudly, “Jesus christ!”

“What!” he asked, alarmed. Her face was horribly pale.

“There’s someone on the back seat, there’s no head.” Her heart was pounding and she felt sick. Her voice was coming out in barely a whisper. “Miss the rest of me.”

Oh god, is this really what Lecter meant? He moved her aside gently and looked in for himself, his head immediately dropping in relief. It wasn’t a real body and they didn’t need to return the car to Liberace, he was already in situ. It was a very old fashioned looking shop dummy dressed in a vintage ball gown, complete with accessories of costume pearls, fur stole, elbow gloves and a cigarette holder. She was surrounded by dried cherry blossom petals.

He imagined Lecter sitting besides the dummy, sipping cocktails. It was absurd and he wanted to laugh so he shook the thought free.

There were several items of interest next to her, though he couldn’t make out what exactly. He stretched to reach them, even leaning over the seat, but couldn’t even get a fingertip to them, never mind grasp anything and there was no way he’d be able to fit in the narrow gap between the drivers cap and passenger compartment. He cursed the fact they didn’t have better flashlights.

“It’s another mannequin,” he said, coming back out to rejoin her after recording the scene. She chuckled nervously, almost embarrassed so he patted her on the arm to reassure her, it wasn’t an uncommon mistake in the dark. “There's some stuff on the back seat. I want to get a better look at it, do you think you could squeeze in and take a look for me?”

“Yeah,” she replied, not happy but willing to chip in where needed. Taking deep breaths to calm herself she took his offered camera and climbed back in. She still couldn’t shake her nerves though and gave the mannequin a glare when she confronted it again with her light.

She sniffed and the familiar smell from earlier came into focus as she realised what it was. Formaldehyde. “You smell that Mulder,” she asked, turning her head to look at him. He shook his head so she explained, “It’s formaldehyde, I think something's being preserved here.” 

He blanched. So not a body, a head? It was the only part of the lady missing. He didn’t voice his concerns. He hoped it was a mannequin head rather than a real one. He had his doubts.

Clambering over the top of the back seat and bridging the gap to her nemesis she could finally see what Mulder had gazed upon. He shone his light in her direction and was glad of the extra light as she sifted through the items on the seat. Junk mostly: a tangle of coathangers, a lap rug, an ugly pair of spare pumps with too many tassels, an old fashioned valentines with lots of papercut hearts. Nothing of any note or value.

She examined the mannequin, silently telling the well dressed lady it was lucky not to have a head as she would’ve knocked it off for giving her that scare (she did however poke it’s shoulder hard when she brushed against it and gave herself a jolt. Her own jumpiness was starting to get to her) and there were a couple of loose tailors patches in the mannequin's handbag both in the shape of small diamonds but they didn’t seem to mean anything so she put them back after taking a picture with mulder’s camera.

“Anything?”

“Not, so far,” she replied loudly over the squeaking of the carseat that groaned every time she moved. “It’s just more… stuff.” She sat frustratedly on the seat. “I don’t get it.”

“What are we missing?” He climbed in and twisted himself around so that he was facing her from the front passenger seat.

She thought long and hard about it and didn’t have a single clue. She watched as Mulder puffed his now grimy cheeks out in consideration and had to smile. Even filthy he had a way about him. She sniffed the air, trying to figure out where exactly the formaldehyde was coming from and looked down, frowning as she did so.

Her eyes widened as she spotted it. Between the stockinged legs of the fancy mannequin was a dark red hood. She slid off the seat to investigate, her curiosity winning through. She reached with a shaking hand to pull the cloth away and, as what was underneath came into sharp focus, she recoiled, alarmed. Her hand hit the edge of a coat hanger as she lurched backwards along the floor but luckily it didn’t break the skin this time as she still had her gloves on.

A head.

It was stuffed into an unbranded bell jar, it’s nose flat against the glass. Its blue eyes staring blankly and it’s mouth agape. It was not in a particularly good way as the jar had leaked a little and the skin was bleached in places but it was well enough preserved for it to still be intact and for her to make out it had brown hair underneath a blond wig, was unshaven and was, most definitely, male.

It took her a full minute to steady herself and then she pulled herself up using the back of the passenger seat. “Mulder, there’s a severed human head back here.” Her voice came out more shaky than she would’ve liked but given that he looked like he wanted to vomit she stopped trying to hide it.

“Don’t touch it,” he warned. “Take some pictures and tell me what you see.”

She reluctantly turned back to it and repointed the camera, taking shots from multiple angles. Putting her professional doctors head on she got down low to it and lifted the skirt out of the way to get a proper look. She was proud of herself for regaining her calm composure and even managed a smile when she spotted the large rabbit vibrator wedged between the mannequin's legs as it was the same one she owned.

“Well it’s a white male, between 25 and 35 I would guess.” She tapped the glass and the head bobbed slightly in the liquid and the wig slipped. She could see he was wearing earrings, makeup too though it had become hideously smeared from years suspended in liquid. “Severed at the neck, no other wounds as far as I can see. Lots of makeup on the head, looks like he’s dressed as a woman.”

She looked up just as he sat facing forward, his head down.

“You ok Mulder?”

He got out of the car. His voice was low and pained, “We need to speak to Lecter.”


	18. Chapter 18

She was worried, very worried. 

Mulder hadn’t said a single word to her since the lockup, since he’d phoned in the head to the Baltimore Field Office and had called ahead to the asylum to say they were on their way. He’d ignored every attempt at conversation and had spent his time looking up at the sky, at the snow that had turned to torrential rain, and trying to spot where the claps of thunder were coming from. Even as she pulled into the car into the hospital grounds and into a bay he acknowledged nothing.

He went to open his door and she stopped him, leaning across him and grabbing his wrist. He stared at her in confusion.

She looked at him kindly, “I can go on my own, if you’d prefer.”

“No, I should be there.” He should. He had to be there for the women dying at the hands of Buffalo Bill if not for himself. “If he can tell us something about Buffalo Bill then...” he shrugged forlornly, he would endure for that. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her with this but she was a trainee and after her last visit she could do with some support. Besides, he really needed to confront his fears, get his anger out, deal with Lecter and move on, once and for all. 

She wasn’t so sure. He looked awful: a storm of angst, pain and sadness and most definitely anger. She wanted to hold him again. “It’s ok to walk away, to take a step back if you need to.”

He looked at her, at her earnest open expression. The tenderness evident in her eyes. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe him, not for a second, but she wouldn’t push it. “Ok. Then let’s get this over and done with so we can get the hell out of here.”

He nodded, thankful.

Outside the wind and rain battered them and lightning flashed in the sky above, illuminating the eerie towers and barred windows of the asylum. They ran across the lot to be met by Barney.

He ushered them quickly out of the torrent, “Agent Scully, welcome back. Mulder, it’s been a while.”

He didn’t reply. Just glared at the friend of a friend.


	19. Chapter 19

Ten minutes later they were in front of Lecter’s cell. It seemed colder down here this time and the corridor was not nearly as noisy from chatter and shouting as it was on her last visit. The light’s dimmer too, including in Lecter’s cell though someone had placed a TV in front of it that illuminated a small part of it.

They couldn’t see the man inside, he was lost in the shadows, however they both knew he was in there as when they’d arrived the TV was blaring evangelical nonsense at a high volume and he’d thanked Mulder for turning the volume off. The man in gaudy robes still ranted and raved on the screen, swayed in front of his choir, but at least they couldn’t hear him now.

Scully had taken a seat in front of the glass, her aching legs crossed for better comfort, while Mulder had retreated to lean against the wall behind her. He looked pissed and not at all like he wanted to engage so she left him to brood. Both of them looked and smelled damp.

“It was an anagram, wasn’t it, Doctor?” she asked, still picking away wet hair strands that’d plastered itself to her face. “Hester Mofet… ‘the rest of me’ meaning you rented that storage unit.” There was no answer so she looked to Mulder for guidance but he wasn’t even looking, his eyes were fixed at a point down the hall so she turned back. “You put those things in there, paid in advance, ten years ago, we want to know why…”

The food carrier tray suddenly swished out of the cell and clanged making her look at it. Neither had heard Lecter move but she wasn’t surprised. She looked up and noted there were two clean, folded, white towels inside. She hesitated but she was soaked and feeling bedraggled and so was Mulder no doubt so she reached in and grabbed them.

“Thank you,” she said to Lecter while passing Mulder his. He dried his hair furiously to the point it was soon spiked up. She just did the ends of hers and draped it round her neck before sitting again.

The light came on noisily, the relays working to help complete the circuits of the old wiring, and Lecter came into view. His cell had been tossed and stripped bare of his books, drawings and even his toilet seat. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the back wall, his arms resting on one raised knee. He seemed a little fed up even if his face remained impassive as he looked first at Mulder, giving him the barest of nods, to acknowledge him, then at her.

“What happened to your drawings?”

“Punishment, you see, for Miggs. Just like that gospel programme. When you leave, they'll turn the volume way up again. Dr Chilton does enjoy his petty torments.”

“I can speak to…”

“Pointless,” he practically barked, the tone of a man who endured. He looked as if he appreciated her kind words though. “Your bleeding has stopped.”

The idea that he could smell her knee turned her stomach. Would he be able to smell her menstruation, if it was her time of the month, too? She dreaded to think how sensitive his nose was. “It’s nothing, just a scratch.” She poked at the torn material and lifted the small flap the nail had created to show him. “Hester Mofet?”

“Which one of you solved that?”

“I solved the anagram, though Agent Mulder was the one to figure out the ‘Your Self’ storage facility.”

An almost imperceptible smile appeared on Lecter’s face. “Coming together is a beginning, staying together is progress, working together is success.”

“And killing people is murder,” Mulder interjected sarcastically, his tone contemptuous. He couldn’t begin to describe how much he hated Lecter, how much he would do anything to be elsewhere.

“He speaks. You look well enough, how’s your stomach?”

Scully looked up at Mulder and noted he was now glaring at Lecter, his hand defensively at his waist. “Perhaps if we could concentrate…” she tried.

“It’s fine, thank you.”

Lecter nodded his head. “And Diana?”

Mulder tried not to let his emotions show as Lecter would feed off of them. He also suspected Lecter already knew. “Travelling the world.”

“Ah, I see. Well do send my regards if ever she flutters back home.”

He didn’t say anything, just bobbed his head politely. It almost felt like old times being here, chatting to Lecter, but truth be told he was struggling being in front of Lecter again. The environments of the narrow corridor and closed in walls didn’t help of course but Lecter had a way of making everything feel claustrophobic and he felt like he couldn’t breath.

“Such a shame what happened to poor old Francis.” Lecter remarked, his tone full of mirth.

“Is it?”

“He got what he deserved. And you did a fine job, ridding us of him. The world is a happier place.”

“For you, perhaps.”

“Me, Agent Mulder, with my four walls? Hardly what one would call heaven.”

“Whose head is in that bell jar?”

Lecter hummed in his soothing tone but didn’t move. “Why don't you ask me about Buffalo Bill?”

Mulder looked exhausted and Lecter looked like he was playing with a mouse so Scully jumped in. “Do you know something about him?”

“I might if I saw the case file. Reports and pictures.”

Mulder cleared his throat, annoyed, and by the look she was giving him he knew Scully had to agree that it perhaps wasn’t the best idea. “After what happened the last time we came to you for help?” Mulder replied.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want my help would you Agent Mulder, you wouldn’t have brought the delightful Dr. Scully with you either.”

He slumped against the wall, defeated. Lecter was right. As usual. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Lecter nodded curtly. “I trust that you will.”

“So what do you know about Buffalo Bill, about the head in Hester Mofet’s storage unit?” Scully asked, seizing the opportunity. “Talk to us Doctor, you’re not likely to get a fairer hearing than this.”

“You know Dr. Scully I do believe you are right.” He sighed, adjusted his leg. “His name is Klaus Bjetland, he was a Norwegian merchant seaman. A former patient of mine, and also the lover of another, whose romantic attachments and proclivities ran to, shall we say, the exotic.”

While she was writing the information down and wondering if seeing a patient and their lover was a conflict of interest she asked, “Did you kill him?”

“Klaus, no. I merely tucked him away, very much as I found him actually, in that austentatious vehicle.” He smirked, “Ghastly isn’t it?”

Neither answered. What was the point when everyone already knew it was vulgar.

“Klaus Bjetland, why do I know that name?” The minute Lecter had said the name it had piqued Mulder’s interest. He knew it had something to do with one of Lecter’s victims. It suddenly clicked. “Raspail’s lover?” They still had him listed as a missing person, he was annoyed at himself for not connecting the dots sooner. Raspail had apparently been obsessed with the man.

Lecter smiled at Scully as if to say, ‘didn’t I tell you he was good’. “Yes, he was. Though Benjamin Raspail didn’t kill him either. The man was too weak, his wrists were too flabby for the flute, never mind decapitation. It was Raspail’s storage facility that I put him in. I merely took over the lease.”

“Do you know who killed Klaus?” she asked.

“No, who can say. Death was the best thing for him though, best thing for both of them. Klaus was a bore and Benjamin with his gluey flute was a blight on culture. Their therapies were going nowhere.”

“Klaus, he was wearing makeup, a wig. Was he a transvestite?”

“In life, no. Garden variety manic depressive. Tedious, very tedious. He never shut up. He spoke a lot of transformation though as did others I spoke to around that time. I look at Klaus as a failed experiment: a fledgling killer’s first effort at transformation.”

“What can you tell me about their relationship?”

Lecter raised an eyebrow, suggesting that none of this mattered, but he indulged her anyway. “Raspail was obsessed with Klaus, he had a thing for sailors as I recall. Young ones. They met in San Diego when Raspail was doing a summer teaching class at the conservatory there,” he grimaced, offended that Raspail had passed his ‘talents’ on to others no doubt, “Klaus jumped ship and they made their way east in Raspail’s gaudy car once Raspail was called back with the Philharmonic and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“My guess would be some kind of strangulation, hanging perhaps. Raspail and his closest were into erotic asphxiation, did you notice how closely Klaus was trimmed under the jaw?” 

She had. Perhaps it had been to cover something up. “I did, it might have been done to remove a high ligature mark.”

“Exactly.”

“How did you come across the head?”

“Via Raspail. He carried it around with him in a bowling bag. It was starting to get him noticed.” Lecter wafted his hand in front of him to indicate he was talking about it smelling through decomposition.

She wanted to ask if that was the real reason he’d killed Raspail. Instead she went with something else. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to report Raspail to the police, why go to all that trouble to cover up Kraus’ death if you didn’t kill him?”

He looked at Mulder pointedly. “And have the police clomping through my private things, my life? Oh dear no. At the time I still had certain private amusements of my own, I still had my eyes on Raspail. How did you feel when you first saw Klaus Dr. Scully?”

Behind her she felt Mulder roll his eyes and shift warningly, don’t let him get in your head. She wouldn’t, not this time. She felt stronger and Mulder was here to pull her back if needed. “Scared at first, because of the unknown, because it was dark and cold and there were so many mice around, and then exhilarated.”

“Why?”

“A few reasons.”

Lecter sat up and smiled. “You’re blushing, tell me why.”

She looked down at the floor, back at Lector and shrugged. “Because we were doing real police work, because what you told me wasn’t a lie.”

“That’s not all. Why?”

“I wanted to…” she stopped embarrassed. She knew Mulder was still watching her. She rushed the next, “I wanted to impress Agent Mulder, I wanted to prove my worth, show him that I was a valuable asset on the case.” She really wanted to follow this to the very end, not to the end of the clue but to the end of the whole case.

Mulder made a noise, kind of like a hum, that wasn’t loud enough for her to make out properly but Lecter pounced. “Oh I don’t believe you have anything to worry about on that front, I think Agent Mulder is quite enamoured with you already.”

She dared a look. He refused to meet her gaze however, his eyes locked on Miggs’ empty cell. Her heart raced and her face reddened even further. 

“It would seem you like him too. Do you think Agent Mulder will help your career?”

“I haven’t thought about it and Agent Mulder and I have nothing but a healthy working relationship.” A lie. They got on very well as friends too and she was all too aware of her desire for him. She was excited by him.

“I think that’s your first lie to me, Dr. Scully. How disappointing.” He clicked his tongue and watched her, trying to bore into her soul it felt like. “Do you think Agent Mulder wants you sexually? Do you think he visualises scenarios, exchanges? Do you think he thinks about fucking you, your little legs wrapped around his waist as he takes you, you bent over as he empties into you from behind, your lips wrapped around his...”

“Pack it in.” Mulder stepped forward, heaving himself away from the wall. He’d had enough of this vulgar B.S. Lecter was deliberately trying to entice a reaction out of Scully, get her confession to things that could be used against her.

“I think that’s a ‘yes’ don’t you agree Dr. Scully?”

She glared at him, embarrassed, horrified and not knowing what to say. Perhaps Mulder did think those things, perhaps she did too, but it was no business of anyone’s, least of all Lecter’s. “Other people’s fantasies don’t interest me Doctor, frankly what you’ve just said is the sort of thing Miggs would spout.” She was proud of herself for the recovery.

“No anymore,” was the slow reply. “I just find it interesting.”

“What’s that?”

“Your need to be liked. Your urge to please, your urge to please Agent Mulder.”

“Everyone wants to be liked,” she replied nonchalantly.

“Not Agent Mulder, he doesn’t care. But you do.”

“I’m sure when I have Agent Mulder’s experience under my belt the need to please will dampen.”

Lecter didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps but will the constant worrying about how you fit in, how you look, dampen too.” She was suddenly lost, feeling attacked she just sat there and he carried on. “You worry about how you look, don’t you? You desperately want to be seen as one of the boys but you want to keep hold of your femininity.”

“You know it’s very rude to play on someone’s insecurities,” Mulder interjected. He shook his head. Scully was a great Agent with a lot of potential but she should never have been chosen for this. She looked exhausted, tired under the weight. “Earlier, you spoke of ‘transformation, what do you mean by ‘transformation’ Doctor?”

Lecter wagged his finger. “It doesn’t work like that any more, Agent Mulder. Dolarhyde was free, this is not. I want something in return.”

“What,” asked Scully, finding her voice. 

“I’ve been in this room for too long and while I know they will never ever let me out while I'm alive I would still like a view. I want a window where I can see a tree, or even water. I want to be in a federal institution far away from Dr Chilton.”

Easier said than done she thought. “What did you mean by "fledgling killer"? Are you saying that he's killed again, are you saying you know who killed Klaus Bjetland?”

“I'm offering you a psychological profile on Buffalo Bill, based on the case evidence. I'll help you catch him.”

“You know who he is, don't you?” Mulder sighed. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lecter was in communication with whoever it was, just like he had been with Dolarhyde. His ruined stomach muscles contracted in fear at where this all might go.

“I know lots of things. Can you risk letting another woman die? He’ll go on and on killing and years from now when you catch him, as I’m sure you will eventually, you’ll see that I was right and I could’ve helped. I could have saved lives. You’re a doctor Dr. Scully, think about saving lives, how it feels.”

She nodded. Lecter was right. They could end this sooner rather than later and if they could stop one more death then surely they needed to make the deal. She would speak to Mulder later. “Tell us who decapitated your patient, Dr.”

He smiled enigmatically, “All good things to those who wait. I've waited but how long can you and Agent Mulder wait? Our boy must already be searching for that next special lady.”


	20. Chapter 20

Scully was on a high feeling exhilarated again, buoyed by the visit to Lecter. She felt like real progress had been made and they had a plan of action. “Will you deal with Lecter, give him what he wants in exchange for Buffalo Bill?” she asked excitedly as they made their way back to the car. The rain had eased but not stopped.

“No.”

His reply was surly and she was incredulous. “Why not?”

He sighed, she couldn’t be serious could she? “The FBI doesn’t deal with maniacs Dr. Scully.” He deliberately used Lecter’s preferred method of address for her and he could tell it annoyed.

She slowed to a stop in the middle of the almost empty lot. She felt a little sad by the turn of events. “But he has information…”

He laughed tiredly. He didn’t want to call her naive but she was being… untrained. “Oh I’m sure he does but Lecter is playing games, stringing you along, that’s what he does.” He looked behind him and realised he was 10 metres away. “It was a shitshow in there.”

“I thought it was very helpful…”

Not only was he frustrated but the anger he’d been feeling all evening started to bubble over. “You really believe him don’t you? That he has all the answers?” He shook his head disbelievingly as she caught up. “You have no fucking idea about that man and the things he’s done.”

“I read your file, I read what he did to you,” she defended standing tall but he was off again and she had to jog to keep up. Luckily the car was only a few feet away and when they stopped she grabbed his arm and implored, “I’ve seen your scar, I know, but if there’s a chance we could stop this we should take it.” He was avoiding her gaze however and she wanted to cry.

He wanted to scream. This was only going to end badly, why couldn’t she see! “You believe everything he said?”

She hesitated. She didn’t trust Lecter, not an inch, but she couldn’t deny he was offering them something useful and he had provided them with the Hester Mofet clue. They had to give him at least an inch. “Yes.”

He shook his hand free of her. “Jesus christ. Everything? Right down to my so-called sexual fantasies about you?”

She startled, why did his harsh tone sting? The bitter emphasis on ‘so-called’ felt like a knife. Did she want him to think of her that way? The only answer was yes. “No of course not. Lecter was trying to unnerve me. I think he was trying to size me up.”

“He’s trying to see if he can use you.”

“And he didn’t succeed. You think Lecter is the most offensive person I’ve faced? You think vulgar talk about my sex life is going to have me wringing a hankie and crying into my pillow. Well, let me tell you something, Agent Mulder, I’m a lot tougher than that.”

He hoped so. But Lecter was up to something. He could feel it in his bones. They were on a dangerous path and she was merrily skipping down it merrily waving a white flag.

“Besides,” she continued while unlocking the car door. “We learnt a lot about Raspail and Klaus…”

“That we would’ve figured out on our own. We would’ve identified the head and connected it to Raspail once the lab pulled the DNA from it as we already have Klaus Bjetland’s DNA on file. Lecter gave us nothing!” He was practically shouting by the time he’d finished. “He’s just making you think he handed you a gold coin.”

“Maybe,” she said in a small voice.

“What?”

“I just think you’re wrong. I think we should take a chance. What difference does it make, all Lecter wants is a change of scenery in exchange for a profile, it’s not like he’s asking for a release.”

“We have a profile.”

“That’s not working. Don’t you want to end this?”

“Don’t…” He turned away and looked up at the night sky, letting the last of the rain splash his face. He was worn out, squashed under the weight of the case, by Lecter and by the expectation and pressure the Bureau always put him under when they got a high profile case. Escaping Patterson hadn’t really changed anything and boy had he learned that fast. “Don’t… don’t put this on me. I get it every day from people at work.”

“I’m sorry.” She genuinely was. “But it was the BSU who wanted Lecter involved in the hope he might offer information and now he’s offering it we cower away? That’s not right.”

“Not like this!”

She didn’t know what to say or do anymore. She was exhausted and so was he. “Let’s just go to the hotel, get some sleep.” She didn't know if that was an offer to share a room again but she didn’t correct it. “We can deal with this in the morning.”

He looked at her, he didn’t need sleep. He needed something else, something more primal and he wasn’t sure she would be up for that. He did let her know he was angry however, “The last two previous times we dealt with Lecter he stabbed me and sent someone to my house. I nearly lost my life and my wife left me during the fallout. If you want to deal with him, that's on you. Put it in your report and make a recommendation to Skinner.” He started to walk away. He knew of some bars nearby.

She tried to reach for him but he was already off. She called out, “Where are you going!”

“To get a drink!” he snapped.


	21. Chapter 21

Sat on her bed in front of her bulky Mackintosh Portable and hugging a pillow she was struggling to put words to screen. What would she say to Skinner? She was having trouble processing it all. She had no idea what to do with what Lecter had said, never mind make a recommendation. Mulder wouldn’t deal with him but would Skinner and the FBI? Would she? Everything was telling her they had to listen to Lecter. He knew who killed those women, she could feel it!

It was easy for her though. This wasn’t personal. Poor Mulder. She looked at the connecting door forlornly. He still wasn’t back and it’d been two hours since she’d watched him hail a cab. She’d thought about going after him but knew he probably just needed to let off steam. She just hoped he didn’t bring a woman back to his room, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear listening to him fuck some cheap floozy barfly.

Her mind was a mess, she realised she was jealous of someone that didn’t even exist and put the pillow up to her face and screamed into it with heavy frustration This would not do. She wasn’t usually a jealous person, she wasn’t the type, so why now? Her mind taunted her, sing-songing childishly back, you want him for yourself that’s why!

God she did. She couldn’t help it. She was only human and he was so very attractive and intelligent and passionate. He was also completely different to every other man she’d come across.

Her stomach was in knots thinking about him.

Of course that didn’t mean she was going to do anything about it. Realistically what could she do? He wasn’t even here and she’d just ended a relationship.

She tossed the pillow behind her and leaned heavily against it and looked around. The hotel Mulder had chosen, The Old City Inn, wasn’t anything special but it had just the right amount of charm about it and she was going to make the most of it, especially the large cozy bed and the giant bathtub in the en suite.

She heaved herself off the bed and went to the bathroom and began drawing a bubble bath, choosing some complimentary poppy infused soak and tipping it in generously, basking in the lucious steam as she did so. She’d already rid herself of her cold, damp, smelly clothes as soon as the annoyingly persistent bellhop had disappeared and now was ready to throw off the easy blouse and skirt combo she’d changed into. Her body ached just thinking about sinking into the water. She’d not had a bath in weeks as the academy only offered showers.

When the tub was full to about halfway, a good temperature and suitably foamy she shut off the taps and was just about to strip when the phone in the bedroom shrilled offensively. She let her head drop in annoyance, this had better be good she silently grisled as she went to the other room again, slamming the bathroom door closed behind her as she did so.

“Hello?” she answered, thinking it could be Mulder. Hoping it was Mulder.

“Dana,” the gruff voice called out and she knew who it was. “It’s Jack, where the hell are you?”

She slumped in disappointment. He must’ve gotten her letter telling him it was over. He sounded pissed. “I’m out of town, in Baltimore actually.”

“I know that, I tracked you down!”

She tried not to focus on the how of that and instead sighed while wearily satting down on the bed. Next door she heard the door to Mulder’s room open and close, a lock being slammed into position and then loud grumbling. She got up to go to him and then remembered she was still on the phone and cursed the man in Virginia. “I’m on assignment,” she remembered to say. “I probably should’ve told you.”

“Yeah you should have,” he flared, his voice bridling quickly towards anger. “I’ve not seen you in days and you missed my class. I was worried…” He cursed and then snapped, “And then I find your letter in my internal mail box.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do.” The door was firmly closed. Should she knock or just go to him? Should she leave him be?

“You could’ve spoken to me, I thought I was worth more.” She didn’t reply so he asked, “When are you going to be back. I want to talk.”

She wasn’t even listening any more and she thought he could tell. “I don’t know, tomorrow I think. It depends on when Agent Mulder…”

“Spooky?”

“Don’t call him that,” she bristled. “He’s a good Agent, we’re doing some good work on the Buffalo Bill case.” A loud smash reverberated through the room and she looked behind her at the wall in shock. It sounded like Mulder had thrown a lamp against it. She needed to hang up.

“He has you working on that, you’re just a student.”

She snorted. That was convenient. It seemed that only mattered to him when it came to other people. “Yes but I’m here because they thought I could add something due to my medical background.”

“We’ll see.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked defensively. She wanted to tell him not to be so stupid, or terratorial. Instead she stood and started pacing angrily. If only she had a pack of cigarettes on her. She’d been trying to give up yet it kept pulling her back like an old friend. Now was one of those times.

“Nothing,” he said tiredly. “Look I just needed to hear your voice that’s all. Talk about the case I’m working on.”

“Right.” She was in no mood. “Can we do this when I get back?”

“You’re never here even when you are.”

She was busy, had her own career to think of. It wasn’t personal. More loud complaining came through from next door, and what sounded like crying, and she paused, looked at the door and took a step towards it. “Look Jack, I need to…”

She had to count how many weeks they’d been together. As long as she’d been at Quantico. The wine and cheese evening at induction, tipsy grabby hands and a rush towards an empty dorm room. Not long really. Hardly enough time to get worked up about schedule conflicts and deep emotions and hardly a life together. Hardly enough time for accusations, hardly enough time for him to be telling her that she needed to be at his beck and call so that he felt like he had a girlfriend. He hadn’t even asked how she was getting on and he was starting to stifle her, he was starting to remind her of Daniel.

“Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.” No. The whole world was breaking apart in the next room. Someone was bound to complain. And then it stopped and it unnerved her.

He was talking in a rush suddenly, “Right this case, god Dana, the level of violence, I can’t get a hold on it but I feel myself getting into their heads, and I'm scared by what I'm feeling…”

She wanted to cry herself, a war waging once again inside her. Stay and talk to Jack, be his shoulder to cry on. Or go and open that door and comfort Mulder, and be a mutual cushion to each other. Mulder with his brilliant reputation and heart on his sleeve. Mulder with his grief. She looked at the ceiling hoping for divine intervention.

She didn’t have to wait long for it. The connecting door flew open, crashing into the wall with a loud bang, and he stood before her, his eyes pure fire and his features hard. He looked at her like she was the final meal for a condemned man.

She hung up the phone and went to him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains nothing but smut. Skip if that's not your thing. Enjoy if it is.

Mulder was on her quickly, cradling her face with his hands and seeking her mouth with his own. He was hard and unforgiving and tasted like heaven. She was instantly hooked. She needed this just as much as he did and she was instantly lost, pushed over the edge of all that they’d been through in the last few days.

She kissed him back in kind, opening herself up willingly, her tongue snaking towards his in a desperate attempt to show him that she wanted everything he was going to give her. She could feel him smile against her as she groaned and they were soon senseless, both eagerly responding to what was being offered by the other, a medicine to a desperate situation.

He pulled away though and she pouted. It was only long enough to rip his coat off and toss it aside however and he was soon pressing his lips to hers again, this kiss as dangerous as the last. Lips were bitten, tongues fought for dominance and she quickly made a solemn vow right there that this was going to be the hottest, most unforgettable sex either one of them had ever had. It might be a one off so she was sure as hell going to make the most of it.

Realising she was yet to touch him she reached for his t-shirt and began tugging it out of the waistband of his jeans but his hands were quick and he was stern as he gripped hers, there was only one person in charge here and it wasn’t her. She could only whimper against him at the thought. Her gasp soon turned into a pleasurable sigh however when he began pushing her back and towards the bathroom door. She was panting at his quick intention but did wonder if it was worth telling him that she’d only ever had sex in a bed before.

Rumbling his approval when she started unbuttoning her blouse he met her beautiful gaze unwaveringly. He was hungry for more but had to tell her, “You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever met, you know that right?” Nothing truer had ever escaped his lips.

She smiled, she didn’t quite believe him but she liked a compliment just as much as the next woman. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me Scully, it’s the truth.” He took off his gun and badge and tossed them onto the dresser, busy hands making light work. “You have a choice: the bed or here, against the door.” It was the only choice he would give her.

She pulled him back down for another kiss, not so easy with her 5’3 height to his 6’, but she’d already decided she wanted him the way he wanted to take her. She wanted him here and now. Not later, not in some cozy bed with nice fresh white cotton sheets and too much time to think. She didn’t want slow love making, not for their first time, she wanted his wild nature unleashed. She felt feral, as savage as the city they were in, and wanton like nothing could restrain her in this moment, and soon let him know with a press of her body to his. She was sure she’d never been this turned on in her life, her underwear was already feeling uncomfortable. He mumbled a ‘good girl’ into her mouth but she silenced him by pulling on his lip with her teeth.

She stumbled slightly as he pushed her back hard against the door but he soon put her at ease by breaking away long enough to yank his t-shirt and jumper off over his head in one movement and threw it away, neither caring where it landed. She was more than happy to note that his eyes looked as wild and out of control as she felt but she didn’t get very long to look as he soon stole her mouth again.

In their passion she thought she tasted more blood, though who’s she didn’t know, she didn’t care. Her hands roamed freely over his back, over his chest and down his arms and his own helped her out of her blouse.

She gasped when she felt him thrust impressively against her. Not ridiculously huge but certainly well above average and rock hard, thick and easily made to satisfy. It was almost overwhelming and the sounds she was making sounded obscene even to her own ears and they were really only kissing at this point. 

He briefly looked down at her, at her sensible cotton covered breasts. They were the most beautiful things he’d seen in a long time and he let her know with a chaste kiss to her cheek, making her blush. In the morning he very much hoped he could make love to her, once the anger, the frustration and the searing lust were put to rest they could take their sweet time, be less frenzied. He’d show her exactly how much he enjoyed being with her and he’d spend the rest of his life worshipping her if she let him. 

Right now however he felt as primal as he had before he’d left her at the hospital, fucking her felt like an excellent idea. She knew him, she knew what this case was doing to him, she felt the stress herself. It was only right they worked it out together, scratched that itch. Her chest was heaving in anticipation, waiting for his next move. She looked wild and he ached to be inside her, to fuck away her defiance and her reason and her tension.

He maneuvered her a little, getting her into a position that was more amenable to being picked up, he wanted to taste every inch of her first though, even if it was a brief sojourn before the main event. She grunted a little when her head connected with the door, but it just spurred them on more. He wouldn’t apologise and nor would she complain, in fact she gasped a ‘yes’ into his mouth. Right now he doubted there was anything that was too rough for them. This would be filthy, hard and exactly what they needed.

Thankfully she was wearing a skirt so he could lift it up when the time came, for now though he leaned down, soothed her lip with his own and pressed his hand to her breast and squeezed her already taunt nipple through the white material, rolling it between two fingers, glad of the cry it elicited. He wanted to make her lose control because that’s exactly how he was feeling.

***

Gasping for breath, she took a moment to admire his body, his defined swimmers muscles, the sprinkling of hair and the scar that made up the perfect him. She was melting, every nerve ending awake and buzzing. Ridiculously dizzy with lust and delirious with want she was turning into a wet puddle. She couldn’t wait to have him inside of her.

It was funny, she thought, how well they were reading each other's desire, his sexual needs were written across his face and she knew she was communicating hers with clear signals just the same. She didn’t love this man, she barely knew him after all, but she felt a deep connection and sure as hell knew that he would be good for her.

“Kiss me,” she whispered breathily and he did, peppering her lips with tender kisses and nipping at her lips, playing with her tongue, exploring. She was quickly reaching for him, massaging his cock with an assured hand. He felt heavy and as he thrust it against her palm she knew with great certainty that she’d be feeling him for long after this was over. He had far too much denim on though. The thought was bitter and she desperately needed the barrier gone.

He had other ideas however and she felt him reach down and start hitching her skirt up and bunching it around her waist and couldn’t help her chuckle when he groaned as he came into contact with her wet underwear.

He pressed his fingers against her and she bucked against his hand. Breaking the kiss only to say, “Mulder please.”

He didn’t disappoint, a finger pressing against her still covered clit he smirked, “You like that?”

She nodded stupidly, the way he was moving his fingers in a deliberately persistent circular motion was extraordinary. His touch to her clit was sending shooting electric shocks throughout her body, from the tip of her toes right to the top of her head and right along her spine. “More.”

His eyes bored into hers, watching everything, his voice rough as he slipped his fingers under the fabric, stroking her folds gently, cupping her and stroking her damp curls, “Jesus, you’re so fucking wet.”

She couldn’t answer other than in noises. She was utterly at his mercy, writhing on his hand as he slipped a long finger into her, exploring the depths of her body. A second finger soon joined the first, pumping slowly and then quickly finding the most sensitive spot inside of her. She was so close already, so swollen, so ready to explode. 

He pulled his hand away and she gasped a frustrated, “Nooo, why did you….”

He answered her wordlessly with an arc of his eyebrow, his fingers slipping from her crotch to his mouth and he grinned at her soft ‘oh’. Like everything else about her her fluids were wonderful, rich and salty. He licked himself clean but soon needed more and this time he would make her come. First though he needed her to enjoy what he just had. The already familiar taste of her needed to be shared.

His lips slid over hers and she pulled him in. She wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to tasting herself, but it was a heady feeling knowing that he was doing it. Her tongue tangled with his, her hands in his soft hair, content to enjoy everything. His lips were amazing, she’d been thinking about them since she’d met him and now she was getting to enjoy them. She was putty in his hands, moulding herself to his body as he crushed her to him and thrust roughly into her.

He released her to trail his tongue along her jaw, nibbling her chin, her neck, her ear lobe. His breath was hot, excited, desperately trying to hold onto his resolve. “Fuck me,” she whispered breathlessly. She felt impatient, transformed with desire to the point it didn’t feel like her own. She was a goddess being worshipped.

“Soon,” he ground out. Earlier he’d been desperate to get inside her, now however he was content to take his sweet time. He slid down her body, kissing her exposed skin as he went, playing with her belly button while he sunk to his knees, slipping her panties down her legs and off, parting her thighs wider. “First I want to taste you properly.”

“Oh god,” she whispered, watching him breathe her in with ragged breaths. She was thoroughly exposed and he was loving it.

His eyes never left hers as he moved in. She was gushing, her thighs coated an obscene amount and she blushed. Oral sex was not something that any of her previous lovers had been that all inclined towards performing, happy to receive it of course she thought bitterly, but it she was realising they’d been nothing but selfish. That he was now licking his lips and drinking her in with hungry eyes caused her to arch towards him and wiggle her hips, telling him to get on with it.

He stroked her again, spreading more wetness around, tending to her opening and her clit that was thrumming and begging for more contact. She was throbbing, biting her lip and trying not to beg him. He was driving her insane. How the hell he was so good at this she daren’t think.

She could feel his breath as he leaned in, the tip of his nose caressing her mons, the tentative tip of his tongue seeking her bundle of nerves before a wide sweep of his flat tongue loved her from opening to clit and back again. Her hands flew to his head, scraping his scalp with her nails, so she could steady herself, she was trembling, her legs like jelly as he lapped at her, swirled his tongue and suckled at her clit, occasionally dipping his tongue inside her.

She hit the door again as her head flew back and she saw stars for multiple reasons. “Fuck!” she cried out as he worked her into a frenzy, flicking and rolling his tongue, adding and withdrawing various amounts of pressure with it as he did so. He soon added his fingers into the mix for good measure and she was gone, crying out, begging him not to stop, her muscles contracting tightly, painfully and she was in heaven, on fire and quaking, sobbing his name and thanking god.

He gave her one last long slow lick after riding it out with her and stood up, grinning from ear to ear. “Good?”

“Do you even need to ask?” she replied, sighing her approval and cupping his cheek with an exhausted hand.

He chuckled, he did not. He kissed her softly, intimating his own need. He was painfully hard, in desperate need of release before he ended up with a permanent issue. She nodded against him and, sensing her impossible need mixing with his own, he started unbuckling his belt and with slightly fumbling fingers pulled it loose and tossed it in the vague direction of his other clothes. He looked up and shrugged a slight apology for his clumsiness, he hadn’t had sex in over a year and felt stupidly rusty. She didn’t seem to care, her desire stained eyes, mussed hair and flushed cheeks were watching him with bemused interest.

He still felt the need to say, “Sorry.”

“Stop talking.”

“Yes ma’am.” He leaned down, so far down he thought he might end up with a bad back, and kissed her in the v above her breasts before trailing a wet line along the material until he found her hard nub and sucked on it, even through the material she tasted creamy and delicious. He was quickly discovering that Dana Scully had so many different tastes and textures and he loved them all.

It was tender and gentle and it was nice, god was it the nicest thing she’d experienced, but it wasn’t what she wanted and she begged. It was soon ripped off her lips when he grinned mischievously at her and placed her arms around his neck. Grabbing her ass he lifted her up, sliding her up the door. This was why she felt so drawn to him: his strength. Strength in men was such a turn on: emotional or physical it didn’t matter but he had both and she’d take advantage of his physicality. He was so male, so large compared to her and he could easily overpower. Quantico training meant nothing when faced with someone who easily had 80-90lbs on her and so much height. She was dwarfed by him and felt another surge of moisture to her most intimate place.

Letting go of her lovely little backside he deftly popped the buttons of his jeans open and lowered his briefs as best able to with the use of only one hand, the other he used to hold her up. He hitched her a little higher to level their connection better and to make sure he had hold of her just right, he intended this to be hard and fast and didn’t want either falling over. He moaned, could feel her heat already and he needed to be inside her now. The thought of her still wet and wanting and ready for him sent more blood rushing to his cock than he could handle and he was soon aching for release.

She watched him from beneath her lashes and they shared one last grin, his mouth was as bruised and swollen as hers felt and she felt the need to sooth but it could wait. She looked down when she felt him take himself in hand. He was soon poised at her entrance, and after tightening her legs around him to draw him closer, she emitted her permission on a growl.

Her growl turned into a keening cry as he slammed into her right up to the hilt in one swift and fluid motion. “Fuck!” she shrieked. She felt like she was being impaled and torn in two and it felt so fucking good. It was all pleasure. All Mulder. She couldn’t believe how incredible he felt, how big he was, how she was having to stretch so much to accommodate him. He was commanding and she could feel every single pulse of him. “Mulder…”

“You feel fucking incredible,” he whispered against her forehead. She was so tight and hot he already felt out of his mind.

She couldn’t reply, any words she might have had were lost as he pulled all of the way out and thrust back into her keenly. Again and again he took her to new heights of ecstasy and already she felt another coiling in her stomach. Her head fell back as he yanked her body towards his over and over. They were crashing together almost violently, he was harsh, brutal in his determination and she loved every second of it and let him know with associated cries, groans and gasps. 

Yet none of it was enough. She needed to erase the last few days. “Harder,” she begged, bringing herself down on his cock hard to show him what she wanted. “Please…”

He moved his lips off of her neck where he’d been sucking large portions of skin into his mouth. He nodded but not before he dragged her cotton bra down and took a hard nipple between his teeth and pulled, making her yelp. He smiled and circled it hard with his tongue to cool her sensitive flesh down. There was one advantage to his being a profiler, he had experience and knew exactly what a woman like Dana Scully needed. She was dainty and proper until it came to what she really needed and then she was wild. 

She was putty in his hands and he loved it, continuing to be guided by her sounds, her little cries and words of encouragement, the occasional loud sob, and gave her what she wanted, gave her the level of ferocity he knew would eventually break her.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted as he fucked her with all his might and she carried on jerking herself up and down his length. He was just the right level of fast and hard and she let out an almighty cry as he fucked her over the edge for a second time, her muscles clamping down around him and contracting deliciously. It seemed to go on forever and he was soon whimpering as she continued to squeeze him and pulsate.

She was only just aware she was marking his back with her nails but it seemed to make him go even wilder and he soon bellowed in her ear as he urgently emptied the evidence of their coupling inside of her.

They were both shaking and panting when he eventually stopped moving. He slipped out after a long few minutes of trying to catch his breath and set her down on quivering legs.

“Feeling better now,” she asked coyly, tidying herself up, rehousing her breasts and pulling her skirt down.

He laughed and she joined him.


	23. Chapter 23

Even by most people's standards it was warm tonight in East Memphis, Tennessee. Catherine Martin had made sure she’d dressed for it with a trendy pair of jeans and a light cotton t-shirt. The weather was forecasting sunshine and she couldn’t wait to get out to the pool. It might only be early March but the climate here was humid and subtropical and only ever dipped below 10 on the radar in January. Today was approaching 16 and what with the high she was experiencing from the bong hits she'd been having all evening she’d jump in there right now if only she had her bikini with her.

That said, she wasn’t sure she could bear to leave the relative comfort of her boyfriend’s futon for a pool. Cody might not be the world's greatest catch but he was fun and knew how to have a good time, his place was coated in posters of the bands she loved, he had an awesome record collection and he knew where to get the good drugs.

Her mom would be proud.

She giggled at her own misplaced insurrection and chuckled into Cody’s shoulder. He tutted down at her with a vaguely annoyed expression, he was trying to concentrate on the movie they were watching through bleary eyes and ears too attuned to the low hum of the box because of the cannabis. She was trying to forget it, all the moving images were making her dizzy. Besides, she had no interest in flying bats nor in Michael Keaton’s strange dancing eyebrows.

“You’re bein’ so stoopid,” he slurred, nudging her with his shoulder.

She nudged him right back, and giggled some more. “No, you’re stoopid.” As if she’d had the world’s cleverest thought she hiccuped and snorted out, “Hey, I’m with stoopid!”

“Such a dork!” he replied, going back to his screen, and to the commercials that had interrupted his viewing so rudely, and taking another deep hit on the bong.

He offered it to her but she shook her head and whined, “I’m hungry.”

“I have some popcorn,” he choked out around a mouthful of smoke and nodded towards his chaotic but barely used kitchenette. “Somewhere in there anyways.”

She got up and walked the short distance to the small units, the unloved oven, the shabby cupboards and the sink with its permanent tower of used cups and take out boxes. “I’ve got the munchies and all you have is empty boxes,” she scrubbed around in one of the cupboards, found an empty popcorn box and a spray can which she held aloft, “and spray cheese. How are you even still alive?”

He grinned emphatically, “Not all of us can have fancy parents and senators for houses.” He frowned at his own garbled words and then guffawed.

Catherine merely rolled her eyes. Already sobering up she really was hungry and nobody should get between a girl and her food. “I’m going to the shop, give me your car keys.”

“By the door.” He was off again, laughing at an inane snow cone commercial. “Pick up some alcohol and beers and hurry up about it.”

“Jerk,” she said, grabbing the keys and letting herself out after finding her shoes and slipping them on.

She looked at her watch, it was late, well after 9, and she could probably do with checking her messages to see if her mom had called. They were due their weekly check in and she could stop by her own apartment on the way back to Cody’s. It would get it out of the way anyway. 

In a rush for independence she wasn’t all that fussed about hanging onto her mom’s every word any more but she would still lend an ear even if all her mom would do was waffle on about some Senate Resolution she was due to oversee and how well Charlotte, her youngest sister, was doing, how her older brother had jumped another rank in the army, and how nice the parties were she was hosting. Catherine, in turn, would spin some yarn about how well she was getting on at college and that her grades were still steady Bs, pushing for As, yes she was still losing weight in time for her mom’s latest campaign photoshoot and yes she’d ditched the loser boyfriend and yes she was making sure to keep her partying out of the papers. Blah, blah, blah.

It was all impossible and made her want to scream. All for show. She couldn’t wait to graduate and be away from her mom’s clutches and stand on her own two feet. She had her own path to tread, she just wished she had the space to put one foot out in front of the other.

Outside a light fog danced off of the Mississippi River and she paused briefly to admire it while she fingered the keys to feel out the one she needed. Above the moon glowed ominously bright and beast-like, a warning to would-be adventurers that while the light may guide you you were on your own if you didn’t have your whits about you.

She smiled to herself, jumped in the car and was soon on her way. A short 20 minutes later she was already emerging from the store, arms full of heavy paper bags and enough food and drink to see them through a good few days (she’d even chanced on some microwavable stuff in the hope she could get Cody engaging with his digestive system). She hadn’t noticed the van that had been following her all day and neither had she seen it park across the lot from Cody's car. If she had it probably wouldn’t have bothered her though, a beat up van for sure but one that resembled thousands of other delivery vans. For all she knew it could easily be on another drop off.

She hummed to herself as she navigated back to her car, dumped her belongings in the boot and climbed back in to begin the journey back home. She didn’t notice the van overtaking her a few minutes later as she sang along to her too loud radio, why would she? maniac drivers were ten-a-penny here. She didn’t notice the glance the driver gave her either, nor his smile. She didn’t even see it park up under the low light street lamp across from her building.

Later on, however, once she’d reached her own place, she did notice the chintzy lamp sitting on the asphalt nearby, and the overstuffed armchair. Both looked straight out of a bordello: dark red with black frills and velvet. She looked at it and thought it funny that it was just sitting there. Had somebody abandoned it? Had one of her neighbours decided to redecorate in colours more suited to the old west and cowboys looking for a good time? Maybe it was someone’s inheritance and they’d decided to leave it out on the street for the rats to claim. It was all it looked good for. Maybe she was getting a new neighbour, people were always moving in and out of the apartments here.

Maybe she’d had too much of the bong.

She shrugged, looked around and spotted the van. She thought she heard someone grunting and heaving and shrugged. Not her circus, not her monkey. She picked out her front door key and smiled when she noticed her cat on the windowsill waiting for her return, waiting for food.

She took a step towards her building but a man clambered out of the van backwards. He looked scruffy, neglected and dishevelled but she could also see that he had a cast on his hand and was wearing a sling. A man in need.

Her mother had told her not to talk to strangers, her father too, but she was trusting, too trusting some would say, and she never hesitated to help someone in need and he looked to be struggling. She took a step towards the man and his van as he first placed the lamp inside and then started on the chair. He gripped it with his good hand and was trying to boost it with his knee, the chair fell over and he righted it. This happened several times and he stood staring at it in annoyance.

“Excuse me,” she offered, “Can I help you with that?” Her tone was neutral, helpful but not inviting.

The man turned to look at her and smiled lopsidedly. He had a strange face she decided but he looked harmless enough.

“Would you mind?” He replied, turning to her and flashing his cast. “I’m having a lot of trouble with this chair because of my arm.”

His voice was strained, odd and almost warped, like he’d tried to change it somehow through artificial means. It wasn’t local anyway.

The rest of him was equally strange. His clothes were the kind you picked up in a hurry, his blond hair was shoulder length but he was hairless otherwise. Both his freckled chest and face were the smoothest she’d ever seen on a grown man. It reminded her of her own face. He was womanly. He’d have a figure to die for if he put on a dress she thought idly. He certainly had enviable cheekbones.

“Not at all,” she finally replied. She stepped in and caught him watching her, she was sensitive to that as men often gave her a lot of shit for her size, and it was slightly unnerving but she put it aside.

“Good,” he said nodding.

She didn’t know what exactly he was saying ‘good’ to but it bothered her and she decided quickly to get this over and done with and go inside. There was an unpleasant odor to the man, like a million tree air fresheners that you hang in your car.

The chair itself was surprisingly light, easily manageable for even the weakest of individuals. She managed it in one quick heave and it was balanced on the wooden panel boards lining the floor of the vehicle.

She wanted to roll her eyes though when he said, “Let’s slide it to the front, if you don’t mind?”

He moved some clutter, a few boxes, a slider for moving furniture or maybe for sliding under a car (it was long enough). She could also see what looked like a small hand winch. She’d heard someone call those kinds of winches coffin winches once which amused her.

She stepped up and shimmied behind it, both wiggling it until it was just about halfway to the seats.

She knew she shouldn’t be in his van, she was certain of it when he asked, "Are you about a fourteen?" he said.

“What?” she replied stunned.

Ignoring her he said, "Would you hand me that rope? It's just at your feet."

When she bent down to look he shoved the chair hard catching her off guard. Caught by it she fell backwards and over, hitting her shoulder on the driver's seat and her head on the panel where the handbrake was held. Groggy she looked up as he climbed in and shut the rear doors behind him.

Trying to move out of his grasp, to crawl away, she tried to scream but he was too quick. Not the invalid he’d claimed to be he was supple, lithe and fast moving. He brought his plaster cast down on the back of her head over and over again and whatever scream she’d thought about letting go was soon lost as darkness took over. 

He watched her for a long second, a creeping smile playing across his features. He’d chosen well. She was going to be good for him. He’d get a lot of material from her.

He pulled off his fake plaster cast and dared a tentative hand to her prone back, lightly skimming it down her shirt. He pulled back the collar of it and read the label, shuddering in excitement.

“Good,” he said.

He slit the blouse up the back with a pair of bandage scissors that’d he kept in a small tool kid, and parted the material like Moses parting the Red Sea. Surely a prosperous and bountiful land awaited now. She wasn’t wearing a bra and he touched the part of her back the closure clips would lie.

"Good," he said again. Like a chef supervising a recipe he felt all the ingredients falling into place. He wanted to touch more of her, to see the front of her, but he also didn't want to get caught so he quickly tied her, put tape over her mouth and checked her pulse, she was fine. He wouldn’t do anything to her yet, he liked to watch his girls, liked to take care of his hides before he took what he needed. She would be no exception as he was happy to take his sweet time.

He clambered over her and into the driver’s cab, started the engine and began his long two-hour drive home.


	24. Chapter 24

36 hours ago she she was having extremely passionate sex with a thoroughly dominant Mulder and having multiple orgasms, being driven to blessed oblivion by his hands, tongue and cock. Unable to keep their hands off each other they’d done it twice more that night in her hotel bed and had only fallen asleep through exhaustion, getting about an hour and a half in before checkout. It was nice waking up to him with his arm lying possessively across her middle. Usually she wasn’t that much of a cuddler, as with most things she liked her space, but with Mulder it all felt different. Since their first, innocent, night together she’d craved his touch, his company, his entire being.

She was certainly paying for it now though through exhaustion, and a very pleasant ache between her thighs, but she didn’t regret a thing.

Well maybe a return to normality. She regretted that had to happen. 36 hours ago she was on an adventure, a taste of what it meant to be a fully qualified FBI agent: discovering heads, speaking to serial killers, giving her deposition to the Baltimore P.D about the storage unit and finishing her report for Skinner, her recommendation they deal with Lecter included (it had to be done but she was grateful to Mulder who’d told her to make her own decision based on her experiences with Lecter and as a field agent).

Now, as she stood leaning against a dice table in the FBI’s mock casino listening to a lecture on money-laundering in gambling, it didn’t hold quite the same level of interest. Later on today she’d be dusting for fingerprints at the Bank of Hogan on their mock street and following that searching for hairs in the mock motel that’d been made up to resemble the scene of a sexual assault. Rounding out the day would be a trip to the outside firing range.

She couldn’t wait for week 10 of her training. It was when she could start specialising. She already had her heart set on the labs and working in pathology. Having a focus would help get Lecter out of her head, he was like an annoying wasp. She was even dreaming of him, when she wasn’t dreaming of Mulder.

The lecturer, Agent Higgins, spun the wheel of the roulette wheel noisily and continued to drone on about how money was cleaned through casinos by people intent on processing the proceeds of crime. Marty Neal was lapping it up, Tom Colton looked like he wanted to kill himself and they variously spent their hour poking each other in the ribs to stay awake, Reyes was doing a good job of pretending to listen and everyone else was either writing notes or pretending to.

When the bell rang there was a collective sigh of relief and she grabbed her stuff hurriedly.

“Lunch?” asked Colton, stifling a yawn.

“Absolutely!” She was starving and her stomach rumbled rudely, making them laugh. “Bottom canteen though, I want a real meal. I’m sick of sandwich boxes and takeouts.” Everyone quickly agreed much to her delight.

“So, come on, Dana,” Colton said while punching the button for the elevator. “Are you ever going to tell us about where you’ve been.”

She felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Colton was the only one out of them all that didn’t know, though she was pretty sure that Reyes didn’t know that Marty knew. She tried to shrug it off. “It was nothing.” The elevator doors pinged open and they huddled inside. “Just an interview.”

“Just an interview, come on,” Marty scoffed. “It was a bit more than that.”

Colton whipped his head to look at his friend. “You knew something about this?”

“Sure. I found out,” he smirked.

Scully and Reyes exchanged annoyed glances but she silently thanked Marty when he only used his knowledge to tease Colton.

They got off the elevator and made their way into the large canteen. It was packed, much to her chagrin, and she thought about going elsewhere but she spotted Mulder about 20 feet away sitting at a table eating his lunch, headphones on so as to ignore the two female agents at the other end, and reading a file. She waved to get his attention but he didn’t look up, oblivious. She told her friends to hold her place in the queue and ventured over, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Is nobody gonna tell me then?” shouted Colton after her. She could feel him stamp his foot and smiled.

Mulder looked up at her approach, slightly annoyed at being disturbed but always happy to see her, especially after what had happened. He took off his headphones and smiled. She was wearing her regulation trainee uniform of a blue tee and beige trousers. She was the only one he’d seen make that look good. “Agent Trainee Scully,” he said with more formality than necessary. “And how are you this fine morning?”

The two female agents smirked at her and gave each other a suggestive look but she tried to ignore it. “I was just about to ask you the same question.”

“You know me: keeping on.” Folding his file closed he offered her a seat and was glad when she took it. “I heard you’d filed your report.”

“I did. I don’t know what will become of it but....” she shrugged. She bit her lip. “We’ll see. How’s the case going?” Because of the close proximity of the other agents she was forcing herself to stay on business. It was hard not trying to admire him right now with his tie pulled loose, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his glasses on. His hair looked bed ruffled and she blushed. She’d spent a happy few minutes playing with his hair, with the little forelock he had that fell loose all the time, as they lay together groggily waking up in the hotel room.

“Slow going.” He threw the file down in front of her and she opened it intrigued.

“What am I looking at?” They seemed to be very large and very ugly blouses, one with too many yellow and green flowers and one with yellow and black geometric shapes.

He tapped the two images as he leaned in close, he was momentarily lost, “God you smell so good.” It was some generic shower gel, very herby, but against her skin it smelt wonderful.

She smiled to herself, though her eyes went to the women at the other end of the table and she breathed a sigh of relief when she realised they weren't paying them any attention. It was just as well because she was getting turned on. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Would you like to get some dinner later?” He nodded eagerly much to her delight. “Good, now behave yourself and tell me what I’m looking at.”

He laughed, shaking his head of more salacious thoughts. Dinner would be good, dinner would be safe. He didn’t think he had anything left in his body to give her. “Both of these blouses were worn by victims of buffalo Bill, they were found in two different states four months apart. He always slits them up the back, like a funeral suit.” He turned the photos over to reveal the forensic report and the electron microscope images and pointed as he spoke, “The bunching you see here, this compression, is characteristic of scissor cuts rather than a single blade, it’s also likely to be the same scissors in both instances.”

“Do you think he has some kind experience in funeral homes?”

“It’s a possibility…” he was just about to tell her he thought Buffalo Bill had some tailoring or dressmaking ability but two identikit male trainees were approaching. “Friends of yours?”

She closed the file quickly and handed it back. “Unfortunately,” she sighed.

He regarded them both: both tall, both had very short blond hair probably shorn the first day they arrived, desperately trying to look the part no doubt (not realising that while Quantico came under military jurisdiction they weren’t the military and 60s era style buzz cuts were not the norm) and both looking like children. He wasn’t an old man himself but these too looked like kids at play, all chubby and dopey and overly eager. Both were holding their hands out for him to shake and he looked at Scully for help as if to say ‘I do not do well with other people’. She was looking at her hands, embarrassed.

In a tangle of voices bellowing for attention they said his name and introduced themselves all at once and then glared daggers at each other to back off. Seemingly he was a prize for them to fight over. It wasn’t quite the wrangling of BSU vs Violent Crimes and the battle for his soul that’d happened not so long ago. He was almost disappointed but he still wanted to run and didn’t take either hand.

“Agent Mulder,” one grinned, the one who called himself Colton. “Big fan. You’re a hero to me, the reason, along with Patterson, that I want to join the BSU. Getting in the head of all those freaks. Nailing guys like Lecter and Boggs must give you an incredible rush.”

It used to. Not any more. He wondered if Colton would like to hear about little green men and giant flesh eating lizards instead of human monsters made by an increasingly warped society. He wondered if Scully would too, now that he thought about it. She didn’t look the type. And she still wasn’t looking at him.

He looked at this Colton and offered a piece of wisdom his own father had bestowed upon him, “There are no heroes or villains Agent Colton, only mortal men cloaked in grey and you shouldn’t make them into champions.”

“What?”

He sighed heavily and Scully looked at him with a reverence that made his heart flutter. He hoped he was conveying the same look back. “Don’t make heroes of mortal men, they will only let you down.”

Marty Neal looked like he got it at least and he changed the subject, “So yeah, Buffalo Bill. How's that going?” Neal was leaning in and tapping the folder on the table.

“Busy…” he was referring to himself, hoping they’d all leave.

“Right, well, if there is any work going I, and Colton,” he added reluctantly, “Will be happy to pitch in.”

“Guys…” Scully warned.

He wasn’t listening. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked at his innocent peach cobbler, now looking forlorn and old. He put his headphones on wanting to be alone again. Thankfully they began to leave, though both men looked like they were sulking. Too bad.

He felt a soft ruffle of his hair and couldn’t help the smile that formed. He pressed play and ate his food in blessed oblivion.


	25. Chapter 25

Skinner was in Reggie’s office when he got back and they ushered him inside and told him to shut the door. Neither looked particularly happy. Skinner looked his usual constipated self. They greeted each other with a nod of professional courtesy. They weren’t friends but they could talk off the record quite easily. Mulder was of the opinion that if they didn’t work together they’d probably be golf buddies. Not close but someone to shoot the shit with.

“Sir?”

“There’s been another victim, West Virginia. A place near Clay, right in the middle of nowhere. PD up there passed it down to us. You know it?”

He did not. He slumped, he was really not ready for this. “Are they sure it’s one of Buffalo Bill’s?”

Both Skinner and Purdue nodded their heads. “Female victim is missing some skin on her back, rather a large portion of it.”

“So far we’ve managed to keep the press at bay but you know what it’s like in small towns. News travels fast,” Purdue sighed. He rubbed his eyes. “We need you to go up there, do the necessaries: fingerprints, paperwork for shipping the body to Quantico for autopsy, speak to the locals, you know the drill.”

“Was she naked?”

“She was in her underwear, a pair of panties, just like the others.”

He nodded. He thought to his board in his office and with a mental marker crossed off sexual motivation from the list. The bodies of the previous victims had been in various states of decomposition and no trace evidence of sexual interference had been found. He was pretty confident that none would be found here either. In his experience murderers who raped their victims didn’t pull up the victim’s panties afterwards. If they were feeling momentarily guilty it came across in the way they posed them afterwards or in the way they sometimes covered the faces with a cloth. It didn't involve labour intensive re-dressing tasks. Reggie and Patterson were still hanging onto it but he’d never bought into it and now he was certain.

“Any ID?” he asked.

“No. Nothing.”

All the other girls had taken a while to ID too. Most of them lead lives that meant nobody missed them if they disappeared for a few days, a few weeks. “Can I take Scully with me?”

Skinner raised his eyebrows. “Why, where’s Agent Lamana?”

He didn’t quite grimace but he pursed his lips. Jerry Lamana was officially his partner, in reality they didn’t actually mean much as they didn’t spend a lot of time together. When Mulder had a case he found something for Jerry to do that kept him out of his way. He felt terrible about it but it was safer than letting Jerry loose on the world at large as he was prone to losing evidence. One day Jerry Lamana would get someone maimed or, worse, killed.

Mulder shrugged. “Scully’s a medical doctor isn’t she? She can help out.” He barely even sounded convincing to his own ears but he was still shocked Skinner was suggesting Lamana. “She can cast a critical forensic eye over the body.”

“I’m sure she’s busy enough with her training.” Skinner looked at his shoes and back up at Mulder. There was a question there that Mulder didn’t dare answer, he kept his face poker straight and Skinner set his jaw. “If you feel that you need a second on this then use your partner otherwise Agent Stonecypher is free.”

He looked out through the glass wall of Purdue’s cell in horror at Carla Stonecypher, at her immaculate honey blond ponytail, and he laughed sarcastically. The last time they’d worked together she’d bored him to tears with tales of the American cheese industry and her enthusiasm for team building exercises (something he was convinced she only went on because it got her out of doing any real work). “She doesn’t even know the case.”

“Get her up to speed.”

He could feel himself getting ratty. “Agent Scully is better qualified.”

Skinner sighed. “I can’t have untrained agents running around the country…”

“You assigned her!” he scoffed. “Besides, her badge doesn’t run out until Monday. I need her for this, it’s one or two days max.” Selfishly he hoped for two. Selfishly he wanted to take her out to dinner because tonight would now be a bust.

Purdue looked like he was silently pleading with Skinner to say ‘yes’ just for an easy life and said, “It’s fine with me. Mulder is capable of keeping an eye on her. You can put it down to a training exercise. Anyway you read her report, the meeting with Lecter went without a hitch, I think she could really help us out here. She’s got the makings of an excellent Agent, let’s give her a chance.”

“Jack Willis won’t be happy, he’s already been on my back about it.” He looked pointedly at Mulder, “And he’s not happy with you either.”

“Since when does an instructor dictate to an Assistant Director?” Mulder derided, incredulous about the situation and hating Willis for interfering.

Skinner gave him a warning glance, his eyes narrow. But he soon softened and Mulder knew he’d gotten to the man. He always did. “Fine but I want to speak to her myself beforehand,” he said.


	26. Chapter 26

A torrential downpour had washed away the last of the snow and driven them all inside from the firing range so they found themselves in one of the lecture halls having their hand strength tested in front of each other. The objective was to see how many times they could pull the trigger on a Model 19 Smith and Wesson revolver in 60 seconds. It was a rather old fashioned thing with a barrel that felt too big and heavy in her hand. She was proud to say that she’d managed 74 with her left hand before cramp had set in and she’d had to change to her left hand. She’d made 90 in total using her new isosceles stance. She’d grinned her way back to her seat, even if she had been sweaty and worried about the loss of feeling in her fingers. She knew she needed to get above 90 with her right hand before she graduated but it was a good effort.

Tom Colton was having his turn now and while another student counted his clicks she retreated with Reyes to the back of the auditorium for privacy.

“When do you think they’ll post the exam results?” Reyes asked.

“Soon I hope.” She’d made up the exam in a private office with two instructors looming over her to make sure she didn’t cheat. She was still rather offended. Still, she couldn’t help grinning, Mulder had been right about that stupid Koala: it had come up. “How did you do with the animal question?”

Reyes hung her head and exclaimed a loud frustration, her jaw grinding in annoyance. “10 minutes I wasted on that question thinking about animals with paws, fingers, flippers and wings, you name it. In the end I think I put an orangutan. I didn’t know what else to say.” She looked up at her friend, at her grin, and her mouth fell open. “You know don’t you!”

“Koala.” Scully laughed, “Mulder was testing me on the drive up to Baltimore and he might’ve mentioned something.”

Reyes playfully swatted at her arm and she mocked an ‘ow’. “You could’ve told me!”

“I didn’t have time.” Boy was that the truth. “I feel like I’m being pulled in 40 different directions at the moment.”

“You can say ‘no’ to these people. ‘No’ is a complete sentence.”

She didn’t want to. She could do with her training being over with, that would make her feel better. “I don’t think there’ll be any more trips out.”

They both looked up at the cheer emanating from the front of the class and both rolled their eyes at all the boys being cheered for their gunmanship. Neither she, nor Reyes who’d managed to score higher than everyone so far, had been cheered. In fact none of the other women had. It really pissed her off.

“You never told me about your second trip, did you sleep with him again?”

She looked away and blushed furiously. “Yes.”

Reyes giggled and leaned in closer. “Did anything happen?”

“No!”

“Dana you’re glowing. Spill!”

“There’s not much to tell.”

Reyes didn’t think so. “Was he good?”

She couldn’t help herself, “I came four times.” She didn’t say it was spread over three different times but it was still the most she’d ever come in one night.

“Seriously!”

“He was that good,” she laughed, fanning herself.

She’d never experienced anything like it. How could two people be so sexually compatible? It wasn’t like she had much experience to judge by: Marcus in high school, Daniel in med school and then Jack but Mulder definitely knew her better than those other three put together. She hated his ‘Spooky’ nickname but his ability to read people, to know what people wanted and needed was almost eerie, as was her ability to understand and go along with him.

“Does he have a friend or a brother?”

She laughed. She always laughed a lot with Reyes. Out in the real world she had few friends, even fewer female friends, but here she was finding a whole new lease of life and was loving it. They all just understood each other. If only her father could see how much she was blossoming.

She was pretty sure she could talk to Reyes about anything which was a good thing because something was playing on her mind about the Mulder situation. It was why she asked in a low voice, “Do you think sleeping with Mulder so soon after Jack is wrong?”

“Wrong?” she spluttered in disbelief. Reyes wagged a stern finger, “Who cares what anyone else thinks. Your body is your own to do as you please with it. Give yourself a break Dana, you’re a young woman. Sex is empowering, it’s fun, and as long as it’s legal and nobody is getting hurt it’s not something that needs to be governed by arbitrary rules and regulations and what other people, men especially, think.” She nodded at the corral down at the bottom still laughing in unison and slapping each other on the back. “Besides there’s a big difference between feeling empowered and seeking validation, one is healthy and one is not, and you’re not seeking validation are you?”

“God no!” She was pretty happy with herself and her choices. She was physically and emotionally stable and she got on well with most people even when she didn’t count them as friends and while she might seek approval she wasn't looking for validation. She knew how bad that was, how that could spiral. She might not be a psychologist but even she knew seeking validation had a habit of escalating into a need to people please and she was certainly done with that. “But reputation here counts, doesn’t it, especially for a woman?”

Reyes shrugged and then thought about it. “As a woman people are going to talk about you anyway, they're going to make value judgements, whether you like it or not. It makes no difference if you’re a saint or a sinner, that’s just the asshole world we live in Day. Just do your job to the best of your ability, the rest won’t matter.”

She knew Reyes was making sense. It didn’t make it any easier trying to navigate the politics of the FBI though, it was a minefield and she was worried. There were ramifications, at least in her mind. “I wish I had your level of optimism.”

“You should do what I do and take a more holistic approach to sex.”

“Oh?”

“Sure,” Reyes gestured positively. “Instead of looking at sex under a social microscope try looking at sex from a more physical, emotional, behavioural or spiritual stance,” she noted Scully’s sceptical look and, knowing Scully wasn’t very in turn with her spiritual side, hastily added, “depending on your own personal standpoint of course, but really the holistic approach allows for sexual expression and enjoyment and positivity without shame, shoulds, or judgement. Be safe, be healthy but fuck who you want to fuck and enjoy it. God knows I would if Mulder gazed my way!”

She tried not to laugh too loudly. “Well it’s not like I want to stop seeing him. We made plans for dinner.”

“Well then stop pigeon-holing yourself as one thing. You're not just Dana Scully FBI or Doctor Dana Scully, or Dana: daughter of Bill and Maggie, or sister or friend or all round good egg,” she smiled at her own gentle ribbing, “You’re Dana Scully, woman! A multidimensional woman at that with a lot of currency in this world, embrace it.”

She sat taller in her hard plastic chair. She’d never thought of it like that but she seized hold of it. She didn’t need to justify herself to anyone when it came to her personal life.

She was just about to say something to Reyes when the door opened below and Skinner walked in, his long grey overcoat billowing behind him. He was scanning the auditorium, clocked her with his hard eyes and went to the instructor, a man named Daniels.

Not a moment later her name was bellowed and she felt all eyes watching her, under the spotlight again.


	27. Chapter 27

“Do you still have your overnight bag packed?” Skinner asked. He was walking in a long stride that she couldn’t keep up with.

“I do.”

“Good.” 

As they walked slowly along a corridor, passing a few trainees, he checked a few doors to determine which room was free, eventually he found one and they entered. It smelled like old sneakers and locker room sweat and had about a million hard plastic chairs bundled inside. She didn’t want to get one down because the blue hue matched her training tee and she was worried about disappearing into it like a chameleon.

“Why do you ask?”

He looked around, trying to figure out if anyone was listening. Even though there was no one else in the room he looked paranoid and shut the door. She soon found out why. “I need you to go on a trip. Some fishermen found a body in West Virginia with all the hallmarks of a Buffalo Bill slaying.”

They wanted her full involvement? She was astounded. A little on edge. A body. More real investigation work. She tried not to show too much excitement. It was an incongruous feeling being excited about seeing a body while knowing that there was another victim that needed dealing with.

“Who is she?”

“No ID as of yet,” he replied. “You’re to go up there with Agent Mulder. We want you to provide preliminary findings, cause of death, wounds, Mulder will cover you while doing fingerprints and pictures, it’s a small town they don’t have the resources to do it themselves. The funeral home is a real mom and pop establishment.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “When did they find her?”

“A few hours but she’s been in the water a while.” He sighed. He looked tired. “We need to move fast. Mulder’s sorting out travel arrangements.” He took his glasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose a little too hard and she could tell there was something on his mind. And then he only confirmed it, “How are you getting on with Mulder?”

What did he want to know? He didn’t look like he knew about them. “Good.” She thought her reply cautious and just the right side of suspicious.

“Good?”

“Yes Sir.”

He smiled softly. “I thought you might. He’s a good investigator, brilliant even.”

“Yes Sir.”

He looked at the floor and then up her earnestly. “He’s been through a lot, has he told you?”

She debated what to tell him but given their relative positions she didn’t think it wise to hide things. “We’ve spoken at length about a few things. Lecter came up, his wife too.”

“His sister?”

The picture of the girl on his desk? She’d assumed it could be a daughter. At the time she’d seen the picture she’d felt it was none of her business so hadn’t asked, it had no bearing on her seeing Lecter and he’d never mentioned her. “No, Sir.”

Skinner was thoughtful but he ventured no further on the subject other than to say, “Then I’ll leave it up to him to divulge it, if he chooses to.” 

He looked like it might be a big thing and she couldn’t help speculating. “Is she dead?”

“Missing.” He quickly changed the subject, “There was some damage to his hotel room, I saw the expense report, a lamp and a chair is that right?”

“Yes Sir, seeing Lector was a stressor for Agent Mulder.”

He didn’t look surprised. “Lecter is a sore topic for most people, he seems content to wind everyone up.”

“He just likes to play games.”

Skinner nodded. “That he does.”

“Will you deal with him?”

“We’re weighing up the costs but right now I want you to go with Mulder and keep an eye on him.”

“He’s fine.”

Skinner didn’t look like he quite believed her. “I’m sure he will be, there are a lot of people invested in Mulder, many people have big plans you know. Nobody wants to see him burning out or wasting his time on paranormal mumbo jumbo.” He looked at her with a pointed stare but her expression was blank. “I trust Trainee Agent Scully that you will keep an eye on him.”

“Are you worried Sir?” He didn’t reply but it passed over to her like night turns to day. If she admitted it, she was worried too.

“Just do a good job Scully, we have faith in you both to complete the task.”

“Yes Sir.” She paused. Now that she had Skinner here she really wanted to challenge him about his sneakiness with the initial assignment but she wasn’t sure how or even if she could.

“Something on your mind?”

She hesitated. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about why I was going to see Lecter?”

His voice was stern but his face was not and he even had the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Several reasons. One, we weren’t certain of a connection between Buffalo Bill and Lecter. The deception wasn’t that great considering the results it yielded.” He put his glasses back on and crossed his arms. “You have to understand that lying and breathing are the same to Lecter. If we’d sent you in there with something to hide, he’d have known it, he hones in on stuff like that. He’d never have trusted you.”

She started to say something, to challenge him further but stopped. He was right. Lecter would’ve known. Yes she’d gotten away with a few small lies during their first conversation but it’d been close. A big lie like this he would’ve jumped on.

“And number two, Agent Trainee Scully, while our methods might be a little questionable we knew you’d perform whatever task we gave you to the best of your abilities. You were chosen out of a very small pile of people, for your fine expertise and qualifications. We knew you’d be a good match and you performed admirably and Lecter trusts you. It’s why we’re keeping you on this case, despite opposition from your instructor Jack Willis.”

Now she knew what Jack had meant by his ‘We’ll see’ remark. She wanted to die a little inside. She was also angry at him for interfering and trying to impede her.

“Anything else?”

“No Sir.”

He smiled. Nodded that she could go and she took that first opportunity without haste.


	28. Chapter 28

They’d been in the air for a little over 10 minutes, in a noisy little Cessna 152 with two small seats that crushed them together in the tiny hot cabin and bumped on every air pocket. Occasionally the engine would sputter and she’d grab hold of something for dear life. Mulder next to her was completely nonplussed and kept up his reading. Below the Chesapeake Bay sparkled under the early afternoon sun. If she craned her head she could still make out Quantico. She’d enjoyed seeing it from above and had taken a picture, determined to turn it into a postcard for her folks.

“What do you know about the body?” she shouted above the noise of the engine.

He looked up, a frown spreading across his features. Sad to be interrupted from his novel. He put it away and pulled the files out of his bag. “Not much, nothing other than she’s been in the water for about a week, you ever seen a floater Scully?”

Once in med school but decomposition was only at two days. “Not as far advanced as the one we’re about to see.”

“It won’t be pretty.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to prepare himself or her. He hated the initial view of a body, it was a rush of emotions and he often struggled to compartmentalise and not associate. He was only glad that she wasn’t cut up into pieces. He hated dissected bodies.

“I think I’ll be ok, I bought my medical kit for samples and fingerprinting. A camera too.” As the dilapidated plane banked left she could feel the gun banging her side too, the first time she’d been allowed a service weapon off the base grounds. It felt like another rite of passage.

“Good.” He cleared his throat nervously. Looked at the pilot but he was wearing ear protectors and couldn’t hear them. “We shouldn’t need it but I booked us into a motel for the night.” He hastened to add, “Separate rooms,” when she looked at him.

“Thanks,” she said, turning to look out the window as the trees made way for open land and farms, wider expanses of water and a few houses. There was a memo in her pocket from Jack that was burning a hole, waiting to be read. She’d found it shoved under her dorm room door when she went to pick her bag up from her room.

He was saddened but realistic. He’d told himself a million and one times it wasn’t a good idea. His right brain was correct all along. The other night they were letting off steam. That was it. That was fine. He’d just have to move on. Besides, the ink on his divorce papers wasn’t even dry yet. He’d only signed them an hour ago. He placed the file on her lap and she looked down at it, her face a little glum. “That’s the current file on Buffalo Bill.”

She dared to touch it, it almost felt forbidden. She nodded a thanks and opened it for perusal. It was full of police reports, lab work, autopsy protocols, grainy enlargements of bullet fragments, stacks of victim photos. She hesitated but took them in one by one: naked female bodies, cast aside. It made her feel sad. 

One woman on a pebbly riverbank, her eyes staring blankly at the camera, especially got to her, she could be anyone but she wasn’t. She was everyone who’d suffered at the hands of a perpetrator. A victim of male violence. She wanted to rail at the world. One of the many reasons she’d chosen the FBI as a career was to end things like this. She touched the cross around her neck and offered up a silent prayer.

She wanted to absorb the rest in silence but she had questions. “How long does he keep them alive?”

“A week to ten days.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Why we don’t know but there’s no evidence of rape or any physical violence prior to death. A few torn nails at most, possibly from an initial struggle or an attempt to escape but otherwise he just holds them.” He reached across and flipped to the next photo, it made her flinch and he offered her a silent apology. “All the mutilation, the removal of skin is done postmortem.” While she took in the ghastly wound pattern he added, “We don’t know what he does with the skins.”

She hesitated to take it all in. “I just can’t get my head around the level of violence.”

Neither could he. “It’s a lot to take in I know.”

And then some. “How does he kill them?”

“He shoots them, possibly with a Colt .38, then he skins them, usually the torso but he has been known to take other parts, and dumps them. Each body has been found in a different state, downstream from an interstate highway so we know he must travel either for work or because of family reasons.”

She flipped a few pages back and forth trying to find relevant information, “There are no forensic details.”

“That’s because the water leaves us with no viable fingerprints, fibers, DNA or trace evidence.” The plane started to lower and he put his seat belt back on. “It’s all washed away. I’ve dealt with people who’ve been clever enough not to leave fingerprints or at least leave them in completely unusual places, Dolarhyde liked to touch the eyeballs of his victims because he wanted to make a connection and he couldn’t resist touching them, but this guy isn’t interested in that, he doesn’t have any lasting feelings whatsoever and once he’s used them I doubt he even so much as thinks about them. They’re commodities to him, their skin is the only thing he seems to want.”

“What could he possibly need their skin for?”

He puffed his cheeks out. He had his own ideas about that but he wanted to see this body first. “Ed Gein used to make gloves with the skin he took from his night time visits to the local graveyard, a belt of nipples, a tongue necklace. Another guy Alex Mengel scalped his female victims and used their hair as a wig, the idea being that he’d have a triumphant headdress to wear during his next crime.” Now that he thought about it Mengel used to wear lipstick when scouting for victims and resolved to spend some time looking him up when they got back. “I once came across someone in a mental institution who’d made a lampshade out of skin and used a human shinbone and foot as a stand…”

“Jesus!”

“Got his inspiration from the Nazi's apparently, much like Gein did. You know in the surgeon’s museum in Edinburgh they have books bound with human skin. It’s called anthropodermic bibliopegy.”

She looked at him, fascinated. “Where do you find all this stuff?”

“I was a teacher at Oxford when I was doing postgrad and research work, it gives you a lot of access to a lot of weird stuff.”

“I think the weirdest thing I ever saw in college was a guy with a fetish for nails, he used to embed them under his skin and accidentally electrocuted himself, we couldn’t shock him to restart his heart as it cooked him further.”

“Lovely!”

She laughed and went back to the file.

“That’s Frederica Bimmel, the first victim,” he said as he saw she’d come to the relevant page.

She was pretty, a size 16, brunette. Pictured in her high school graduation cap and gown she was smiling at the camera and full of promise and optimism about her future. She touched her hand to the girl’s face. “Were they all like her?”

“He has a certain type.” He took the picture and offered an apology both to Scully and the girl. “Her body is the only one he bothered to weigh down so she was actually the third found. After her he got lazy and now just throws them away like he thinks they’re common garbage.” 

He handed the picture back as the pilot indicated they’d be landing in a few minutes. She did her own seat-belt up and then pulled a map out. It showed the central and eastern US. “Are these the dump sites?” she asked looking at the widely spaced and hand drawn markings, mostly coloured arrows and circles.

“Circles are where the girls were abducted, arrows are where their bodies were found.” He taped the folded crumpled blue sheet. “Bimmel was abducted from Belvedere Ohio and found in Missouri. Same marks for all the other girls, in different areas. The girl today washed up in Clay,” he just about found it on the map. It was tiny, with a population of 592, that was even smaller than the place he’d grown up in. “It’s conservative, working class, farms and forestry mainly. Nothing exciting.”

“There’s no correlation at all between where they’re kidnapped and where they’re found?” He shook his head so she queried, “Have you traced back the heaviest traffic routes from the dump sites? Do they converge or correlate at all?”

He smiled, impressed. “Now you’re thinking like an Agent.” Sadly they’d already thought of that. “But no, no correlation at all. We’ve run every simulation going, using different parameters each time and the best dates we can assign from the reports we have, I’ve even driven up and down these roads more times than I can count, but we don’t even get smoke signals.”

The plane hiccuped and they could feel the landing wheels being lowered, her stomach lifted in response. Outside the window they were soon at tree height and rapidly approaching a scruffy looking runway with a patrol car and rental parked to the side to meet them. The runway didn’t look as if it’d been tarmacked in decades. She took a deep breath as rubber squeaked against the road and let it out only when the plane had stopped.


	29. Chapter 29

If the runway was bad it had nothing on the bumpy and potholed roads. Mulder was doing his best to navigate them while they followed the patrol car in front but it was bad, not as easy as the last time he’d driven his way around the winding roads here, and his spine was doing a good job of knocking into his skull.

“What are your initial thoughts on a suspect?” Scully asked.

“The profile you so adequately dismissed the other night is in the back of the folder.” 

He cracked a sunflower seed between his teeth and raised an eyebrow but a slow smile began creeping across his features and she knew he was just engaging in banter. From the passenger seat she flipped to it and read, “He’s mostly likely a white male, in his late 30s or early 40s…” She looked up and queried, “Doesn’t the conventional model say that serial killers are most likely to be in their twenties?”

“Statistically they might start in their twenties but there are instances of serial killers starting later. It might become statistically rarer the older someone is but it’s not anomalous. I believe our suspect is older on account of his cautiousness. He’s precise and in control. Something you don’t often see in younger serial killers.”

“Why do you think he’s a white male?”

He threw a spent shell out of the window and marvelled at the broad expanse of countryside with it’s looming season changing trees before he answered, “Serial killers tend to take their victims from within their own ethnic groups, that there isn’t a mix of ethnic profiles indicates he’s sticking to what he knows.” To be a good teacher and for her benefit he added, “There’s a certain prejudicial governance at play when it comes to serial killers. They don’t tend to go outside of their own ethnicity because it will more likely than not get them noticed. The more organised a serial killer is the more intelligent they’ll be with their victim choice. They’re not likely to want to arouse suspicion by choosing someone from outside of their socioeconomic neighbourhood or phenotype. A black guy fishing for victims in a white neighbourhood will get noticed quickly as would a white guy skulking around a black neighbourhood.” He shrugged, “You go with what you know. Risky behaviour only really occurs when the desire for a new fix becomes too great or they’re close to being captured. I don’t believe we’re anywhere near catching this guy.”

Scully couldn’t help marvelling at his insights. “What else can you tell me about him, do you think he lives round here?”

“He’s certainly knowledgeable about the area, the flow of the rivers and the lay of the land, given the geography of the crimes. He’s unlikely to be a drifter. I’m sure he has his own place somewhere even if he does travel a fair bit. I’m sure he has a job too, one that’s legitimate enough that means he can go under the radar but still gives him enough time for his pursuits. He likely watches people for a while before he takes them too.”

“Could he be a salesman like John Lee Roche, it would allow him to scope out his victims, get to know them to the point they trust him?”

He wasn’t sure but he said, “Maybe. It’s likely he’s luring them with something. Maybe he’s selling something or perhaps he’s pretending to be an invalid.” He turned to her and looked a little forlorn, “It’s not been easy trying to get inside his head when he leaves us so little to go on.”

“I know.” She smiled sympathetically and said, “Let’s hope we catch soon.” He didn’t look convinced. She hoped they could talk more personally later. “Why do you believe he has his own place?”

“You tell me Agent Trainee Scully.”

He was testing her and she was enjoying it immensely. No classroom could provide this. It was like driving: the real test only came when you were thrown out into the real world. It was the same with being an FBI Agent. It was probably why the probationary period lasted so long, 2 years compared to their relatively short 20 week training period. “What he does with them takes privacy,” she shifted in her seat, trying desperately not to think of those photos but they came unbidden. “And time, he probably needs somewhere to store his tools.”

“Exactly, he probably has somewhere out of the way, though not totally isolated. The vocal cords of all the victims were strained so they were somewhere they couldn’t be heard.”

“I’m guessing he’s strong, to move those girls without detection.”

“Right, we know that he plans, he’s physically strong, he probably works out but not to the point that he’s a bodybuilder, not to the point other people would think to comment, but has the control of an older man, never impulsive.”

She thought long about it. She knew plenty of older men, hell Daniel had been 22 years older than her, and they were rarely impulsive, rarely out of control in their day to day lives. She turned to look at Mulder, he looked ridiculously young but definitely had an old soul. “How old are you?”

He chuckled, “You mean you don’t know!”

“I was too busy acquainting myself with your other attributes to stop and count the candles on your cake.”

He laughed loudly and, as they were stopped at a light he leaned over and nudged her with his shoulder. Their night together was fantastic, life affirming, and he was happy to note she wasn’t totally ignoring it. Maybe he’d misread her on the plane. “I, um, enjoyed myself immensely.”

“I could tell, you were very enthusiastic.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good!” Did he even need to ask?

He nodded. In danger of getting a hard-on though he steered it back to safe ground, “I’m 29. Why did you want to know my age?”

“I just wanted to know. I wasn’t sure. Sometimes, like now, you look young and at other times you look older.”

“Well I hope you're not about to start comparing me to Buffalo Bill.” He had enough trouble trying not to connect himself to Lecter, he didn’t need another lunatic making a home in his head.

“No!” She laughed nervously. It wasn’t that at all, she was just interested. Mulder was one of the rare ones: someone who she was attracted to who wasn’t that much older than her. She was struggling to get her head around it. The last man in her age bracket had been her highschool prom date. Going back to the case she said, “This won’t end in suicide, he’ll either be caught or we’ll have to kill him.” She hoped it wasn’t her. She’d killed a little garter snake once, an accidental bunny slaying too, but never a man.

“He has a taste for killing, it’ll be hard to break.”

“And he’s getting better at his work. I don’t believe he’ll stop.”

Neither did he. “You’ve got a knack for this stuff you know.”

“A keen ear and a critical eye but not as good as yours.”

“You’ll catch up.” He followed the car in front through a turning and saw the little town of Clay come into view and open up. It was nice to look at something other than trees. “I’ve spent my life studying this stuff, working out why people do the things they do, what motives, what excites, what annoys, the how, the where, the why and the what. Other people fascinate me.” She fascinated him.

“And yet you say you don’t do well with other people.”

“That’s because most people are cunts.”

She barked out a loud laugh. “True enough.” They shared a longing smile of understanding and she knew there would only be one room tonight. She would listen to Reyes, the note in her pocket from Jack didn’t matter, whatever it was. “Have you heard anything back about the head?”

He hummed as they passed a deli and neared the funeral parlour, every police car in town seemed to be parked outside. “Still with the lab. We thought we had a fingerprint from the bell jar but…” he shrugged, no dice.

“You know I keep…” she paused and started again. “I can’t get Lecter out of my head.”

The highway patrol cruiser ahead of them nosed towards the curb and he quickly followed, parking behind and shutting off the engine. They were outside a large white framed house. Pretty if not for what was inside. A large wooden sign outside read ‘Greig’s Funeral Parlour.’ Two troopers got out of the car and he motioned for them to wait.

He turned in his seat to face her. She was looking at her lap. He tipped her chin up with his index finger and she looked at him. “I know,” he said. “If you need to take…”

“No,” she was quick to say. “It’s just Lecter. He’s like a ticking clock, intrusive.”

He knew that feeling only too well. “Are you remembering your techniques?”

She nodded. She knew he meant compartmentalisation. A device for dealing with stressful situations. “I should treat Lecter the way?”

“Absolutely. File him away to a little corner of your brain and treat him the same way you’d treat someone on your slab in the lab.” He smiled at her softly, “But if it gets too much come and talk to me. I’m always available, you know that.”

She knew he meant it. That was one of the many reasons why she liked him. She didn’t get a chance to answer as one of the troopers, impressive in his sunglasses and hat, peered in through the driver’s side window at them indicating they should get a move on. Mulder nodded and turned to her and she indicated she was ready.


	30. Chapter 30

There was a service in full swing inside the chapel and the mood appropriately sombre. People in dark outfits and widow's veils filed in to find a seat for the grandest show on earth: death and all its glory.

It struck him on a sad note that one person here was being given the correct passage into the afterlife after a quiet death (he’d overheard people talking about it as they passed by) while the other was lying outback in a part time morgue, the victim of an altogether different horror. The juxtaposition of tones didn’t sit right with him and he could only hope that whoever she was had a decent family, people who would come and claim her and set the world right again.

In the dim and cluttered parlour, where they stood waiting for the mortician, about 20 or so Virginia State Troopers stood watching them suspiciously, as it to say ‘she’s ours now, you can’t take one of our own’, they both shifted uncomfortably, both feeling unwelcome. He looked down at Scully, dwarfed by all around her, but her face was fixed and she was staring ahead not giving anyone an inch. He couldn’t help the smile nor the sense of pride at the way she held herself, at the way she wouldn’t budge an inch for these territorial buffoons.

When she did look at him she looked like she wanted to roll her eyes as all the male attention had shifted to her. She knew what they were thinking, she knew it was ‘you don’t belong here little lady, this isn’t for your genteel eyes’. His lips curved into an admiring smile and while she didn’t match it the corners of her mouth did offer him enough to know she appreciated his awe. Because he was in awe and he would tell her a thousand times over.

For her part Scully cleared her throat, licked her lips and shifted from one foot to the other. She was trying not to over appreciate the looks her temporary partner was giving her, though she welcomed them of course. She looked around at the drab surroundings, caught the eye of a few chauvinist officers and looked away. She tried not to be insulted, tried to see it from their point of view: that they were just looking out for the victim. In a way it was nice. Protecting someone in death who’d missed out on that luxury in life. However, it was also unnecessary and bordering on hindrance. Would they follow her into the embalming room? Would they surround the table blocking her access and ability to perform her job? She hoped they had more sense.

She hoped the smell of embalming fluid would get to them and they’d want some fresh air. It was probably a hopeless hope. They were continuing to stand and stare and nothing would move them it seemed. She wasn’t sure how they could stomach it. The embalming fluid smell was strong and made her eyes water. The funeral director had tried, unsuccessfully, to cover it up with huge bunches of flowers and ugly looking wreaths but it would take a long hot shower to get the cling of it off of her.

Maybe it was the home itself that was really bothering her. She hated funeral homes with a passion. She hated the way that funerals were conducted for the living, not the deceased, and she always hated the musical choices. There were so many good hymns and prayers but people stuck with the standards: The Lord’s My Shepherd, Abide with Me or Amazing Grace. Right now the dying strains of Lord of all Hopefulness was coming from the next room.

She made to step towards it, drawn by the soft tones, the theatre of death and her need to connect to the living, to offer them some form of comfort however small, but Mulder tugged at her coat sleeve and when she turned to look at him he shook his head, a strange little frown creasing his brows as he tried to understand.

It was a frown that turned deeper as the low sombre music changed into something else and she felt pulled towards the same level of bewilderment that he was experiencing. The sweet organ music was a piece they both recognised as Shall We Gather At The River. It’s timbre was almost too upbeat and a shiver went down her spine that echoed across from her to Mulder and they exchanged a look of bemusement and of something otherworldly, both wondering if it was a message of some kind.

Several of the mourners glanced at them curiously but it was a musical oddity only they were concerned with it would seem.

They shook it off, there was nothing else to do, and he let go of her coat. Someone asked her how she knew the deceased in passing and she shook her head that she didn’t, the little old lady tutted at her and the Troopers rudely. The last time she’d been in one of these places for a funeral it’d been for her Sunday school teacher Mr Joffrey. How Great Thou Art had played then. It seemed fitting for him. This music seemed ironic given where their victim had been found.

Mulder spotted the rotund and mustachioed Chief Deputy coming down the stairs and went to speak to him leaving her clutching her bag being scowled at and pored over by a bunch of strange men. She stood uncomfortably, gripping her belongings tighter.

One of the troopers cleared their throat and she looked at him, a kid really, didn’t look long out of high school, he smirked at her and she immediately looked away to concentrate on a loose piece of paisley wallpaper that flapped every time someone walked passed. As she did she heard him whisper, “Well doesn’t she think she’s somethin’”. Someone else stifled a childish snigger while another man, old enough to be her father, said. “She ain’t as hot as she thinks she is.” Yet another, she didn’t see who, replied, “She ain’t so bad, I’d go two rounds with her, I’d even let her boyfriend watch.”

She reddened and looked at Mulder’s back, silently imploring him to get a move on. This was hell. Usually she would challenge such blatant objectification but she was keenly aware that she also needed to keep these people on side if they were going to relinquish the body to the Bureau and an altercation inside a funeral home wouldn’t look healthy on her report card.

Thankfully Mulder waved at her, “We’re around back” he said, and she heaved a huge sigh of relief and rushed to join them.

“Deputy Chief Perkins, this is Dr. Scully,” he said, introducing the two as they walked down a narrow hallway towards the embalming room. A sewing machine, a tricycle and various other pieces of random junk littered the floor and he had to dodge them all. “She’ll be helping us with the medical exam today.”

Perkins shook her hand but his tone was curt and totally unsociable, “I’ll tell you what I told him: it wasn’t my idea to call you folks up here that was the State Attorney. We’re perfectly capable of dealing with stuff like this and looking after our own. If she’s one of ours we won’t be handing her over, simple as, this'll be our case.”

Scully looked at Mulder grimly and he said more with his eyes that she’d ever heard anyone say with their mouth. He was as pissed off as she was. “Our only concern is finding out what happened, we’re not interested in who claims credit,” she replied.

The Deputy Chief opened the door to the embalming room and followed them in. Both Mulder and Scully were dismayed to see all the troopers had followed them. “Damn straight.” The Deputy Chief set his jaw while looking at his men. He wasn’t interested in softening. Unhappily he added, “Now, we'll extend you every professional courtesy while you’re here, we’re nothing if not polite, but we’d just as sooner get this over and done with if you don’t mind. Get you folks back on the road.”

Mulder and Scully had exactly the same thought and agreed. Really there was no need for the Deputy Chief to even be here, Mulder had merely extended him a professional courtesy. However the man’s attitude was starting to grate and he wanted rid so he said, “Um Deputy Chief,” and motioned to the side, away from Scully, “Perhaps we could speak in private, away from everyone?” She looked incensed but it wasn't about her, it was about getting rid of these goons. They needed space in the room to look at the body, to work, not a pissing contest about bureaucracy. 

The Deputy Chief hesitated, grumbled and then looked Scully up and down and nodded so Mulder ushered him to the side.

Scully burned at the sight of them in their own special little club, she’d thought better of Mulder. She tried to ignore it as best as possible but it hurt and turned around hoping to get a look at the body. However she couldn’t even see it with the amount of people cluttering up the room, it was ridiculous. Worse was that the troopers were still staring at her with morbid curiosity and she fussed with her pant suit self consciously while she tied up her hair.

She quickly decided she’d had enough of this circus and cleared her throat loudly. She knew she was going to have to raise her voice when they indicated they weren't here to listen to her, or any woman. She remembered the picture from the parlour she’d seen: Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, and knew these men were a lost cause too.

She was nothing if not dedicated to her art though. “Excuse me gentlemen. You officers and gentlemen.” She went an octave higher, just for the ignorants in the back, “Listen here now, there’s things we need to do for this girl. I know that you all brought her this far and her folks would thank you if they could for your kindness and sensitivity but now please, it’s time to go. Let us take care of her.” Nobody moved, and at least one looked like he wanted to spit on the floor at her feet but it was too bad. “Go on now, I’m a doctor, I’ll make sure she’s seen to right, thank you.”

Nobody moved, they all just stared. She repeated her sentiment in a sterner manner only louder this time, “Please, we need to collect evidence to help catch the person that did this and we can’t do that if there’s a risk of cross contamination. It’s best you all leave. Now!”

It seemed to do the trick and they started to nod and understand the gravity of the situation. They went quiet and respectful, finally, and started to usher each other out of the room, even the grim Deputy Chief, at Mulder’s urging, followed them out.

“Scully, that was totally badass” Mulder grinned, coming up to her. “You just gave me chills.” He respected her before, he was ready to acclaim her now. He shook off his coat and suit jacket and replaced them with a plastic apron. He also eased his hands into some surgical gloves.

She couldn't help smiling, even if she was a little angry at his boys club behaviour. “Next time you want a room cleared just ask.” 

She puffed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes as they shared a look before she followed his example and put on an apron and gloved her hands while he set up a fingerprint transmitter. They were soon joined by the local mortician, Chris Lamar. A squat little man who seemed perpetually busy. At least he was respectful, she thought.

Introductions made she turned to the body encased in a tightly zipped body bag that rested on a porcelain embalming table. She’d not seen one of them since she’d visited the Museum of Surgical Science with Daniel on a weekend trip to Chicago years before. Weirdly the table was the only modern object in the room. The room’s glass panelled cabinets and faded cabbage rose wallpaper reminded her of the Victorian era labs in her medical history books.

Lamar passed some vapour rub around and she raised an eyebrow when Mulder refused it. He clarified: “I like to smell a body, it can tell you a lot about where it’s been, what’s been done to it, the environment.”

He was right but she knew how badly a body who’d been in the drink for a whole week was likely to be so she took it readily and, turning away from the men, daintily dabbed it under her nostrils. Once ready she started preparing her stuff: a fingerprint kit, fibre tape, sample jars and collection bags, tweezers and other instruments they might need.

She only dared to look at the body bag properly when she heard the zipper being retracted in a flurry. The sudden smell hit her first and she grimaced and put a hand to her face. She couldn’t help the quiet, “Jesus!” that escaped but she was hardly the only one who recoiled from the putrid smell, Lamar did too, the sickening aroma was already settling at the back of her tongue and sliding down her throat.

She tried to remember her medical training, that it was only chemicals (cadaverine and putrescine, skatole and indole, hydrogen sulphide, methanethiol and dimethyl, disulfide and trisulfide to name but a few), all things that helped a decomposing body, she tried to remember her rotation to pathology too but and no amount of preparation, or vapour rub, would be a protective barrier against it.

The only one who wasn’t overly fussed was Mulder. When they all looked at him he shrugged, muttering that he’d dealt with worse and had already prepared himself.

He took a few bright images with his large forensic camera that produced instant pictures which he lined up near his bag and said, “Open the bag.”

With a shaking hand she did just that, slowly peeling the thick black plastic aside. The woman was large, Bill’s exact type, and covered in a pair of muddy cotton white panties. Rigor had long passed and there were signs of immersion, wrinkling of the hands and feet. The water had leached what remained of her skin turning it grey though luckily for them not too much maceration had occurred. Her skin had softened but it hadn't begun to detach. There were large wounds where the skin had been flayed neatly from just below the breasts down to her knees.

She looked away to catch her breath and take control of her emotions. “Bill…”

“You ok Scully?” Mulder asked. He knew she probably didn’t want any attention drawn to it, knew she didn’t want to be thought of as weak, but he hoped he could offer some kind of solidarity. He might have prepared himself for this, but it was still someone lying there that had met a truly shocking end and he knew he’d most likely cry for her later, or call Karen Kossoff from the employee assistant program (Skinner had awkwardly shoved the card in his hand as he was heading out to go to the airport), or dive into a book about UFOs. Anything to take his mind off this.

After a deep breath she said, “I’m fine.”

He nodded, unsatisfied but resolved to hurry this along. He pulled a dictaphone out of his case and pressed record, setting it somewhere it could pick up everyone's voice and begun the process of bringing her home.

After photographing her from numerous different angles, he remarked, “They should’ve bagged her hands, fingerprints might be a little difficult to get.” He touched her hand gently and untangled her fingers from the strong fishing line snagged around them, there was a hook piercing her palm but he knew he’d have to leave it there for now. He took a picture or it all anyway.

“Should get at least something,” Lamar offered from the other side of the table. “Even if it’s only a partial.” He picked up her other mangled hand and offered it to Scully to take a look. 

She silently agreed while she got out her tape to measure the young doe eyed woman. “Cause of death should be easy to determine at least, looks like a gunshot wound,” she said, pointing out a small hole on the sternum.

Mulder leaned in for a better look at a ragged, star shaped wound between the victims breasts and just on the edge of where the flaying started. Lamar helped her with height and weight measurements while he set a ruler against the wound and recorded it.

“Wrongful death,” she said and Mulder agreed with a soft, “Yeah.”

“What are your observations Scully?” he asked, watching her closely.

“She’s young, no older than 25.” Against the Deputy Chief’s protestations she argued, “She’s not local.”

“No ma’am, we’re a small town. I know everyone and she’s not one of ours,” said Lamar. “We have no missing either.”

She gave him a thankful smile. Her voice shaking ever so slightly she continued, “Her ears are pierced three times each, and she’s wearing glitter nail polish, looks like big town to me, possibly a city.” She took note of the victim's legs too, “She looks…” She caught her use of tense and corrected herself, “Looked after her appearance, waxed her legs, but there’s about two weeks of growth here.” There was also evidence her underarms were waxed too, and her top lip bleached. This was a woman who took care of herself.

Mulder finished up his pictures and put the camera aside and went back to the hand he’d observed earlier, “There are two fingernails broken off and there’s dirt under the others, I’m guessing she tried to claw her way out of wherever she was held. Might be somewhere underground.” 

He envisioned a hole in the ground, somewhere deep, dark, lonely. How scared they must have been. Once when he was a kid he’d been playing near an old farm on the Vineyard that grew peaches. Wanting the soft fruit after a long pick up game of baseball on the beach he’d ventured onto the property and taken a huge bounty. Triumphantly he’d begun his walk back but it’d got dark in the meantime and he’d tripped and fallen down a disused well near the farmhouse. It wasn’t deep and only his pride had been bruised but being 8 and quite short at the time he couldn’t reach the well head to pull himself out. He remembered how much he’d screamed and cried for help and how it hadn’t come for a long time. He also remembered the farmer and shuddered. On eventually hearing his cries the farmer had loomed above him, shovel in hand, stared at him and told him it served him right. He would have to sit there and think of his lessons until his father came for him. 5 hours he was down there. 5 long hours he’d screamed his throat raw and struggled to claw his way up the slippery brick wall and mud mixture. By the time his father did eventually get to him and the farmer lowered a ladder down he was exhausted, covered in his own vomit and he’d wet himself. He’d been claustrophobic for months afterwards and refused to sleep in the dark. Despite the horror of that incident though, and despite how it still made him feel powerless and afraid, he still couldn’t imagine what these women had been through. He’d escaped with his life. They hadn’t.

“I’ll scrape out some samples after we’ve printed her, I’ll take a few chips of nail polish too, we might be able to match it to a type or a batch and figure out where it was sold.”

“You ever fingerprinted a corpse, Scully?”

“Yeah, a few times, want me to do it?”

“You do left, I’ll do right?”

“Ok.” She readied the hand nearest to her, carefully inking each finger to press against a thin card sampler (Mulder doing the same on his side). Scully blanched and took another deep breath to stop from letting it get to her in the moment. The time to curse the world would be later.

“Are we gonna roll her?” Lamar asked once they’d finished. “I think she has some damage to her other side.” He was bending low, trying to see under her back.

They both looked but Mulder replied, “Yeah but I want to get a picture of her teeth first.” He added an attachment to his camera, something that would allow him to take a photo in a confined space without it blurring or overexposing the print.

Lamar leaned in and gentry retracted the woman’s lips and a small amount of water slopped out. Pressing the camera in Mulder pressed the shutter release, each time he did it there was a red glow inside the cheeks, each time he passed the developing print to Scully.

“There’s something inside her throat,” she said in shock as one developed in her hand. She handed the print back and while the two men examined it she searched in her kit for something to grab it.

“Could be anything,” Mulder said. “A piece of debris.”

Lamar concurred, “When a body comes out of the water, lots of times there's like, leaves and things in the mouth.”

With a pair of forceps she bent over and, with a bit of effort and a wiggle, pulled out a small, lumpy, brown cylindrical object. The body hissed, releasing it’s last death knell. Looking at it in wonder she held it aloft.

“Looks like some kind of seed pod.” What kind he couldn’t ascertain.

“Nawsir,” drawled Lamar. “That's a bug cocoon. No way it can get all the way down in there unless someone shoved it in." He pushed his perfectly round specs up his nose and nodded to himself.

Scully grabbed a jar from her kit and carefully dropped the cocoon inside, preserving it in alcohol and passing it to Mulder, he looked equally fascinated and grossed out as he held it up to the light. She had to admit she felt the same. They’d have to speak to a specialist to get it identified.

She sighed, worn out by all these developments. She was ready to drop. She looked at Mulder who was massaging his neck, kneading the muscle with deep presses. They both needed to get out of here, she decided.


	31. Chapter 31

They’d finished up thoroughly but quickly and she’d been left to pack up on her own much to her chagrin. On the woman’s back they’d found more wounds, deep triangular shaped patches of missing skin in a pattern not seen with the other victims, a small burn mark neither could identify and more tangled fishing wire.

Outside she found Mulder leaning against the side of the funeral home and watching the world go by with a cigarette in his hand as mourners went back to their lives amongst the square buildings. The main thoroughfare of Clay reminded her of a stereotypical image of a frontier town in the wild west.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

He looked down at the poisonous stick and flicked some ash away disdainfully. “I don’t anymore, my ex-wife made me quit a few years ago, I just felt like it now you know.” He tilted his head towards the funeral home. That woman would haunt him.

She took it from him and took a deep drag and blew the smoke towards the sky. Before she’d joined the FBI Daniel had made her quit. It didn’t look good for a doctor anyway but she’d always been annoyed about his bossy behaviour, nagging and gaslighting. “Addictions are rarely broken when they don’t come from within yourself.”

She sounded like an addiction counsellor, though given he knew she smoked under stress, and had seen the evidence for it, he chuckled, “Speaking from experience?”

She took another pull on the old friend, welcoming it’s toxins and musing that it was so easy to fall back into old habits. “It’s a filthy habit and, as a doctor, I can’t even begin to tell you the damage it can do.” Alveoli, the tiny air sacs in your lungs that take up the oxygen you breathe in, didn’t grow back once damaged. They left a person more susceptible to lung conditions. That was before you took into account mouth conditions. One of the worst experiences as a doctor was a cancer patient whose tongue had to be cut out.

“There are worse proclivities to have.”

“Not ones that will turn your lungs to bags of dust.”

He took the offending article back before she leeched it all. “So why do you look like you’re enjoying it so much?”

“Because I am. Must be my rebellious streak.” She chuckled humorously though there was a touch of bitterness too.

He rolled his eyes and watched a stray leaf twist away from a spindly branch and spin to the ground. “You don’t think you're rebellious?” If she didn’t think what Lecter had said about her had at least some modicum of truth within it then she was kidding herself.

Catching on she grinned and told him, “I started smoking because my father hated my mom smoking. He used to shout, bellow even, at her so I knew it was wrong, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be doing it, even before I understood the health drawbacks, but I did it anyway because I wanted to be scorned. I wanted the one thing my father had never given me: disapproval.” Of course she had it spades now and it wasn’t a good thing at all. She wanted to go back in time and shake her past self, tell her to stop being so silly, so juvenile. You can’t miss something you don’t have but you sure can mourn when your wish hits you full on in the face.

“Do you have any idea what a good psychiatrist would say about that?”

Probably. He was in a funny mood indeed and she felt herself slipping easily along. “Have you done it?”

“What?”

“Profiled me?”

He laughed around the butt of the cigarette, letting the smoke sting his throat and burn his chest. He wasn’t really used to it any more. He didn’t even know why he’d bought them. Last time he was this pissed off he’d fucked Scully and he knew which of the two activities he preferred. “No.”

“Why?”

Bored of the cigarette he flicked the last of it to the ground and scrubbed it with his shoe, smiling when she pouted. “I wouldn’t want to offend you.” Besides, she kept on surprising him and he liked that about her. Profiling her would mean reducing her to a set of traits and characteristics and that would be a shame. “I’ve never done it with someone I’ve slept with, seems like a violation you know.”

She understood, but, with a twinkle in her eye, asked, “Never?”

“Never.” Well, he’d tried with Phoebe and had even succeeded much to her annoyance. It didn’t really matter what he’d worked out though. When your head is up your own ass it’s hard to see the wood for the trees no matter what realisations you come to on the page. The sex had been good and he liked the level of kink she offered (and she certainly had no qualms about letting him play out his), it’d blinded him. At least until he fell in love and made a prat of himself and realised there were more healthy things to do with his time.

“Mulder?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you ok?” He had that sad look about him, one she’d seen a few times now.

“Yeah, just incredibly tired. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Life, the universe and everything.” Whether they would catch this guy, whether Lecter would help or be full of more shit, whether Roche would give up his hearts, where his sister was. The usual.

“Douglas Adams fan?”

“Yeah. I even live at number 42.” Not that he spent much time there, he seemed to live mostly in motels. Once upon a time he’d lived in a house in Oxford. He still owned it. An ageing hippy named Gordon rented it from him.

She smiled at that, wondered what answers she’d find here and with him. “Me too. It was hard in there.” She took his hand in hers and he gave it a squeeze.

He looked at the ground. “I keep seeing my sister.”

She squeezed his hand back and remembered what Skinner had said, how little he’d said. How many traumas had this man actually had? “How old was she when she disappeared?” He raised an eyebrow and she admitted, “Skinner mentioned something but none of the details.”

“She was eight.” He looked up at the fading light, at the peach pink and beige sky with its hints of rich blues and purples far off into the distance that would soon catch up and take over as surely as the earth kept spinning. He looked for starlight, looked for hope and found none but the warmth of her hand. He daren’t think about what that meant. He wasn’t sure he was ready for something like that.

“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t imagine. “Is there anything I can do?”

He thought about it and shook his head. No, there was nothing. He wasn’t even sure of it himself. It wasn’t that he’d seen his sister on the slab in there, it was more the uncertainty, the desire to make sure those girls were given back their identities, something that might never be afforded Samantha. Not now he was pretty certain she was an abductee. If Scully thought her father was disappointed in her, it was nothing to what his father thought of him and the regression hypnosis he’d been through.

“You get your samples bagged and tagged?”

“Yeah,” she replied knowing the topic of his sister was off limits for now. “I put a few requests on the autopsy form such as to check for stomach contents, I didn’t see any of that in the reports you gave me.”

“That’s because there isn’t anything. He starves them before he kills them.” He gave a halfhearted apology for not telling her sooner. It’d seemed too much, one more horror atop too many others. “Only gives them water or lemonade.”

She wasn’t pissed, just annoyed. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“Nothing.”

She wasn’t so sure but dropped it. "It's not fair is it?"

The world wasn't fair. He looked back at the funeral home and said, "Nope." He watched the traffic for a while, a patrol car drive past slowly, the driver eyeballing him. “Let’s get out of here,” he said finally.

She picked up her bags and nodded. “How far is the motel?”

He spun her around to face it. It was just over the road. The Elk River Tavern. A modest looking two story establishment with five rooms and a small lot out in front. The sign proclaimed they only had three rooms left.


	32. Chapter 32

“Nice slippers,” he said looking up from his position on his bed where he’d been working ever since they’d arrived.

She wiggled her feet and raised an eyebrow while she dried her hair with the fluffy towel (surprisingly nice considering the rustic feel of this place). She ignored his comment about her grey bunny slippers, a birthday gift from Reyes, and went through the connecting door from her room to his and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Writing my report, adding to my profile, trying to make sense of all this.” Trying to make sense of the world.

She lifted up some of the pictures and immediately put them down again. She couldn’t any more, not today anyway. “I don’t know how you do it day in, day out.”

“Well, I’m not sure if I can any more.”

“So don’t, take the night off. Give yourself a break. There’s nothing that can be done right now anyway. I transmitted the fingerprints to Quantico and sent my samples by currier.” When she’d eventually found one.

“Maybe,” he replied non committal. “How was your shower?”

“Heaven.” It was the best shower she’d had in a long time. She finished drying her hair and dumped the towel over a chair and sat down next to him in her robe. He’d changed into a white T-Shirt and a pair of snug looking boxer briefs. “You should try it.”

“Are you saying I stink?”

“No, not at all. It’s just good for the soul.”

Not for him. Finding answers was all that he needed. Outside the funeral parlour he’d felt lost, exposed and useless, full of guilt for what had happened to that girl on that porcelain slab, his sister. Now, away from that place, he felt more at ease, rested, invigorated. He fished out the cocoon from his bag and held it up, “What do you make of this?”

She dreaded to think what it’s implications were. “I don’t know, were there cocoons with the other girls?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t at some point, I mean they could've been expelled somehow. Internal pressure on the body due to gases during the decomposition process.” Picking at his files he pulled out the report on the storage facility. “I’ve already phoned the lab and asked them to check Raspail for one. It’s our best chance.”

“Good idea.” She yawned. It was too early for bed or dinner and so she reluctantly took the little jar from him. “It could be a butterfly or a moth.”

That’s exactly what he’d thought. “Before we take it to the lab I want some of my friends to look at it.”

“Oh, you know some entomologists Mulder?”

He laughed, “More like the Three Stooges.”

She didn’t get it and handed the jar back. He surprised her by putting it away along with all his paperwork, putting it all on the floor. “You know I can’t wait to get out of here, those Troopers were something else,” she said.

That was an understatement. He reclined on the bed and faced her, indicating she should do the same. A nap would be nice. “You did well in there.”

She felt she had no choice. She let her frustrations spill out. “They pissed me off, I was offended.” She sighed indignantly, “As a male police officer you don’t know what it’s like to be dismissed and objectified so blatantly.”

“No, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I heard some of the comments but I didn’t want to draw attention to you in the middle of a funeral, I didn’t want to embarrass you.” And he knew she could deal with it. Which she had.

“And I’m grateful for that, that you know I can handle myself.”

“And I’m sorry I left you to talk to the Chief, I wasn’t trying to intimate that you weren’t up to the challenge, it was wrong of me.”

She smiled, grateful for his apology and kissed his cheek softly. He needed a shave but she had to admit he looked damn good with stubble. “I got the feeling he wouldn’t have spoken to me anyway.”

“He was a bit of a jackass wasn’t he?”

“A bit?” She pulled back the thin bed covers and climbed in, covering herself up to the waist and leaning on an elbow. He did the same. They were so close now and she was reminded of the last time they’d had sex. Not tender or romantic by any means but intimate, watchful, attentive. Out of the three times they’d done it, it had been her favourite. She liked him watching her. She loved being the centre of his attention.

“Is this ok?” he asked, settling himself as she nodded. Her robe had fallen slightly and he could see the gentle slope of her breast, the soft skin, the very edge of a rosy nipple. His cock began stirring in response. He was a lost man and he was only too happy to die at her feet.

She knew he was looking. She was tired, needed to sleep, but the way he was biting his lip, at war with himself, was enough of an aphrodisiac for every conscious thought to go out of the window. She reached over and slid his glasses carefully off his face and put them on the bedside table behind her, shifting closer.

He brushed her hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“Only about a thousand times.”

He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead, her cheek and her nose. “Smart too.” Finally her lips, just a soft swipe and ever so gentle. “And sexy.” He could love her. The realisation was as frightening as it was revelatory. He pulled away, flopped onto his back and scrubbed his face in his hands hard. “What are we doing?”

Confused, she closed her robe. She thought it was obvious: two young attractive people who enjoyed each other's company were letting off steam during a horrific case. “I thought it was obvious?” She’d already been through a lot of personal introspection for this man (was it right? Was it good for her career? Was it professional?) but she’d neglected to think that he might have the same questions and doubts. She thought of Jack and how uncomplicated he’d been. She didn’t want him of course, not any more, but there was certainly something to say about simple people. “Do you want me to leave?”

She touched Mulder, his muscular forearm, and ran the pad of her thumb over the soft dark hairs there. Touching him was comforting, that was half the problem: she couldn’t get enough. She also knew she didn’t want to define anything, that scared her too much. They’d only known each other a short while.

“I want you to stay, that’s the problem.”

She smiled, “It’s a nice problem to have, no?”

He laughed, god she really was perfect. What the hell did she see in him? Taking a deep breath he told her about his sister, because he wanted to believe, wanted to trust her, perversely hoping it would scare her away so he wouldn’t fall harder. He was surprised when it didn’t, even more so that she was listening intently and without judgement. She told him she didn’t believe in UFOs, abductions and extraterrestrials but that she did believe in him and his convictions, in his strength and his personal faith. It was more than enough, all he needed to hear. Trust without recriminations, without penalty A benediction. A sign. An unwavering gaze. Diana believed but she didn’t believe in him. Scully did and that’s what made the difference.

By the end they were lying facing each other again and he kissed her softly, needed her to know how much he appreciated her, how much he needed her.

For her part she kissed him in kind, opened herself up to him and bared her soul in much the same way he had just done with his words. She didn’t believe, science was her god, her hope, her way of making sense of the world. Aliens didn’t figure into it. Mulder figured into it though and the answers she’d been seeking were right here in front of her. She was happy, unencumbered by expectation, parental guilt, men who cut up women for fun, free from the stress of cannibalistic monsters and cum throwing lunatics. 

She felt his hands, tentative at first, gentle, wandering all over her in a soft, meandering pace. The desperate and frenzied couplings of before were being replaced by a simple and basic need to be close to each other and discover, to learn. They would make love and they would take their sweet time over it.

Her body trembled as he grazed and then stroked a particularly sensitive spot on her left breast and he grinned at her sharp intake of breath. His hands were like instruments wielded by only the finest surgeons, first her breast, a gentle squeeze of her already taunt nipple, and down to the knotted tie of her robe which he pulled free to run a hand over the length of her stomach. And all the while his lips never left hers, even as she hummed into his mouth.

She couldn’t get enough. It was the sweetest thing she’d even know. Warm against her he was in turns tender, powerful and knowledgeable, making her feel things she’d never even imagined before. Getting to know each other this way was a heady experience, potent and intoxicating. The little sounds he made in response to hers made her want more, made her want everything.

His hand trailed back up her body, his thumb dipping into her belly button making her giggle, trailing an invisible line up her sternum and her shoulder until he hit terrycloth. “Take it off,” he muffled against her mouth, barely breaking the kiss.

They both sat up, somehow only managing to part for the barest of moments while she shrugged off the offending article and pushed it off the bed. He had to pull away eventually however, to pull his T-Shirt off. He repositioned himself in front of her naked form, his backside against his heels.

Both panting, she lay back raised up on her elbows, watching, waiting, beholding his dilated pupils and his fuzzy hair from where she’d just had her hands in it. They shared an assured smile as she noticed the tented front of his underwear. He looked down at himself, contemplating, a lopsided grin on his face. His full attention on the task at hand though his eyes were soon raking over her body appreciatively.

He leaned in, grabbed an ankle in each hand and pulled hard. The world came out from under her as she landed with a soft, “Oof” flat on her back but closer to him.

Leaning towards her, he slowly crawled up her body planting kisses on her calf, her knee, her thigh and stopped just short of where she needed him the most. He was barely touching her and already she was lost, gasping and wiggling her hips, trying to get him between her thighs. He surprised her by grasping her ankles again and slowly pushed them up until her legs were bent at the knee.

“What are you up to?”

“I want to learn everything there is to know about Dana Scully,” he said, like an artist choosing which brush to use to paint his favourite muse. He parted her thighs and leaned in to kiss her belly.

That was fine by her. She gasped as his tongue made contact with her stomach, caught her breath when he moved up to her belly button again and exhaled an, “Oh god....” when he ghosted kisses up her body and made contact with her left nipple, drawing it into his mouth and composing soft circles around the engorged bud with his tongue.

His other hand moved to her other breast, rolling and pinching the nipple with his fingers, and she was soon writhing against him, closing her eyes in pleasure and pushing her breast further into his mouth. He was only too happy to oblige and took a bigger mouthful, looking up at her with hooded eyelids.

“If you keep doing that, you’re going to make me come,” she sobbed greedily, on edge and ridiculously wet. She was probably soaking his thighs. “Please…” 

She could feel him smiling against her and then the bastard released both her breasts, moved up her again, taking her gold cross in his mouth and tugging gently before letting it go, kissing the hollow of her neck where it’d fallen. He whispered against her, “All in good time.”

She pouted, curling her lip over, but it was soon stolen from her mouth as he had her in a devastating kiss, hot and passionate all at once, his tongue moving against her in a manner that took her breath away. In response she hooked her leg around his waist, her foot pushing into his backside and, as he moaned appreciatively, she pressed him into her. She cried out at the feel of him against her sex, he was so hard. She’d felt him before of course but if anything he felt harder now, rock turning to steel.

He choked back a sob of his own as she moved her body against his, couldn’t help the hard thrust in response to her incredible motions, his need echoing hers. He backed away on the need for control over himself though, kissing the tip of her nose. An absurdly chaste gesture given her current, naked, situation.

“You ok?” He asked. 

She furrowed her brow, it was an absurdly chaste question to go along with his absurdly chaste gesture. She nodded though, asking in a slightly husky tone, “Yes, why?”

“I just want to make sure.”

It was sweet, if unnecessary. “I’m enjoying myself.”

He was too and energetically said, “Good, me too. But I’m about to make you feel even better.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yes.”

“And just how are you going to do that now?” she asked in a mock innocent tone.

He smiled knowingly. Kissed her nose again and then, when she thought he was going to get up and take his briefs off he moved to her ear, whispering, “I’m going to put my mouth on you because I know how much you love it and because you taste fucking amazing and because it’s what I want.”

She could only whisper out incomprehensible sounds, the occasional “Oh, god,” as he inched his way down her body, dragged his bottom lip up her navel, dotted her public mount with kisses and hummed against her.

With a hand in his hair she encouraged him lower, needing more contact. She was crazy for him, what he was about to do. His mouth thrilled her and if the sounds he was making against her were anything to go by he was enjoying himself just as much as she was.

She felt a finger press and then stroke against her wet clit before she could feel his mouth, carefully spreading her open with index and middle finger, teasing, testing her. She cried out in frustration, it wasn’t enough, but just at the point of maddening he slid a long finger into her tight wet heat and she could only whimper many, many, many, sounds of thanks.

He pumped her gently, kissing her inner thigh, her labia, teasing softly and watching her sex swell further and fill with blood, his favourite part. Watching the way her body changed and moistened, became drenched through want and desire, ready to receive his cock, drove him wild. He reached out with his tongue finally making contact, drinking her in.

Her hands tightened in his hair and began massaging his scalp and his tongue played with her clit, exerting various amounts of pressure. It was electric and she could feel it throughout her entire body. She was ready to let him move in down there and laughed at the thought. He stopped, looked at her with a quizzical frown. She groaned desperately, “Don’t stop. Soooo good.”

Thankfully he didn’t stop. She closed her eyes and cried out loudly when he sucked her clit, ran the flat of his tongue across to soothe and then twisted it with a swirling motion. When he gently slid another finger inside of her she nearly flew off the bed and it was his turn to chuckle.

“Evil man!” she sobbed against the pillow. She was trying her hardest not to buck into his face and writhe around like an idiot but it was so hard and it was too good. A small curl up of his digits though and she was flying, clamping down on his hand, arching her back and crying his name. He continued to pump in and out while lapping at her swollen nub to prolong it. She’d never felt more alive.

While she was coming down from her high, lying there with a satisfied grin on her face, he moved away to pull his boxers off, his magnificent cock springing free. He was hard and huge and once again she was in awe. He smiled as she reached for him and he settled himself over her.

He kissed her, sliding his tongue across her bottom lip and into her mouth and she tasted herself, the rich smoky flavour he so thoroughly enjoyed, enjoying their combined tastes. It made her feel powerful.

She felt him take himself in hand and press against her, pushing ever forward. Her mouth fell open as she took him in inch by inch, she panted as she stretched to accommodate him. He didn’t just look big, he was big, he seemed endless and he was making sure she felt it all.

“So good,” she sighed in pleasure when he was finally flush against her. She shuddered, feeling impossibly full and ready to break apart again.

“No kidding!” He groaned in a strained reply. He felt stupidly drunk on her. “You feel incredible.” He had to close his eyes to steady himself and stop from shaking. A minute later when he was back under control he reached down to tilt her hip up a little and slid in deeper and they both moaned in unison.

Maybe not. He paused, trying to regain his composure again and she asked him was ok, he wasn’t moving, just breathing heavily.

He laughed shyly, a little bit self consciously. His voice was shaky, “Um yeah, it’s just you’re so fucking hot and I’m struggling not to come straight away.” 

She couldn’t help laughing, but she cupped his face and said, “If you need to come, come, I already have.” She squeezed his cock with her pussy and his eyes slammed shut, his head going to her shoulder as he whimpered.

There was no way he was coming now, he was going to savour this. He took a deep breath and started to move. Any trace of smugness on her part was soon replaced with ecstasy. No matter how many times they’d already done this he would never stop feeling incredible.

He placed soft languid kisses along her neck and shoulder, licked her collarbone wetly as he moved in and out of her gently. His first few thrusts seemed quizative, almost exploratory, like he was allowing her to get used to him. Trying to find what she responded to, and liked, the most, but his movements soon grew in confidence and his shallow thrusts became deeper.

His hand reached for a breast and he bent down to capture her nipple in his mouth making her hum. He moaned in response, carefully teasing the hardened nub against his lip, traced it with the tip of his tongue, laved it. The sensations it elicited went straight to the area where he was currently nestled between her thighs and she felt a fresh wave of wetness wash over her as she pushed up to meet his hard thrust.

“There you go,” he breathed, a bead of sweat forming on his brow which she licked off the next time he bent his head. “Love how wet you are.”

Her hands were in his hair pulling him to her mouth, he could only respond by kissing her deeply, his passion evident. A particularly good upward stroke of his cock had her crying his name and begging him to do it again which he duly did, hitting the same area again and again and again. She could actually feel herself rushing towards another orgasm already and the realisation that he was doing these things to her and making her feel this way was intoxicating.

“You like that?” he panted but she could only give needy moans, affirmative sobs and rasps of encouragement, words having long escaped the area of her brain that produced them.

He went to her neck, alternating between biting and nipping and soothing with lips and tongue. When he reached her ear he tugged on the earlobe with sharp teeth before saying, “Wrap your legs around me, high up my back, cross your ankles.”

Admittedly this was a struggle, she was small, but she managed it just about and crossed her ankles at his lower back just above his ass. She immediately felt the change in angle and her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open in pleasure. She arched her back and then her neck and he kissed her throat, running an open mouth up her neck, over her chin to her lips.

The new position definitely spurred him on more and his thrusts soon started to increase in pace, got a little harsher and shallower and she knew he was close again. He was still talented enough to reach that part of her she liked him touching the most though and the the sounds of their loud moans, kisses and sighs filled the room along with the sound of their combined arousal, a weird symphony.

He whispered in a shaky gravelled tone, “Love this.”

There was nothing but agreement from her. She writhed against him as best she could with her legs locked around him her hips meeting his thrusts enthusiastically, feeling everything coil in her gut and everything tighten down below and when he reached between them to touch her wet bundle of nerves she flew over the edge again, clamping down and crying up to god and to Mulder and wondering if there was really any difference right now.

She felt like she’d died, her limbs were suddenly horribly heavy and exhaustion took over. She couldn’t hold the position any longer and unhooked her ankles and let her legs fall back to the bed.

She tried to keep up with him as best as she could though as she wanted him to enjoy his finish as much as she’d enjoyed hers. He let out a hoarse cry into her neck as his world came apart, as he gushed into her, clawing at her hip, holding her in place and probably leaving a mark. 

Not that she cared.

He flopped tiredly down on top of her, his weight heavy but comforting, she dotted little kisses all over his shoulder, his adam's apple and anywhere else she could reach. Both were panting heavily and tiredly.

“That was fucking incredible,” she sighed. He could only agree with a sleepy nod that it was.

Eventually he slipped out and made quick work of cleaning himself up. It wasn’t long before he was back in bed though, pulling her onto him so that her head was resting on his chest, and covering them up with the duvet. She could hear his heart beating a mile a minute and she supposed hers must be too as she was still getting her breath back.

He kissed the top of her head and she looked up at him. He was watching her through drooping eyelids and looked truly happy. She kissed him and settled herself back down on his chest.

She closed her eyes, letting exhaustion take over. “I think you killed me.”

“I can think of worse ways to go than death by sex.”

She could only agree as they drifted off into an easy sleep.


	33. Chapter 33

All Catherine Martin could see in the darkness was more darkness. Pressing in and kissing her cold body, covering like an unwanted blanket on a sticky summer night.

It made her ears hypersensitive to even the smallest of noise: a fly buzzing nearby sounded like a chainsaw, the beating wings of insects sounded like a thunderstorm, a dog barking upstairs made her cover her ears. It was too much. It made it difficult to differentiate the sounds. She thought she could hear running water though, someone walking over floorboards and slamming doors. Her own heartbeat felt like a hammer on a drum and worsened her headache and she could swear she could hear her own eyes blinking. There was definitely someone else in this place with her however.

She didn’t know where she was but she knew she wasn’t in a very big space and couldn’t get out. The brick walls were tall and damp, soaking wet in places like water was trying to force its way in from the other wide, occasionally she could hear a drip. She wondered if it was a well or an old shelter of some kind. Whatever it was had been capped or filled in as the floor was made of concrete (with a small drain in the centre). The only company she had was a bucket attached to a string for doing her business in.

There was a word she couldn’t quite remember, her brain felt foggy, it might be French, an oubliette or something like that. That's what this place reminded her of. She shuddered.

She wondered how she’d gotten down here, she guessed she was lowered somehow, maybe with a rope, she had what felt like burn marks across her chest and underneath her arms that stung like a bitch.

She ached all over actually, felt stiff and bruised and knew her elbow had taken a bump or ten. At least two of her fingers were broken, a toe too. She remembered being hit over the head and she’d tasted blood at one point though that had thankfully subsided. Someone had taken her clothes off and dressed her in a scratchy jumpsuit though she knew she hadn’t been raped.

She was afraid. Not of the dark but of the unknown. She hadn’t seen the man who’d taken her since he’d shoved her in the van (though she had a hazy memory of someone taking photographs of her. Flitting in and out of consciousness she’d remembered a blazing flash of light and the whirr of an old camera moving film along). She knew that son-of-a-bitch had kidnapped her, knew she probably wouldn’t get out of here for a while. It seemed to her that they were in the middle of nowhere. She’d screamed a lot and it hadn't helped. She’d stopped. When she saw that bastard she'd tell him about her mom.

She wanted to scream now but she didn’t. She kept still. She could hear a nearby creek, a door opening perhaps, and footsteps. Her heart rate soared and her breathing quickened. The bucket moved, scraping across the floor. She was too late to grab it. She tried to swallow her fear. Tried to find the person in the dark.

“Hello?” she called, her voice felt raw. “Who’s there? Please mister, I know you’re there. Let me out!” There was no response. She could hear the bucket being raised and then emptied, washed in a sink above. A basement. She was in a fucking basement. Some wacko had dug a pit in their basement and she was right at the bottom of it. “I know you can hear me!”

More footsteps and breathing. Heavy breathing like excitement. She wanted to throw up. She tried to stay calm, it was a struggle.

“Please my family will pay,” she said. “Cash, whatever ransom you’re asking for!”

A small orange light came on above, a crappy dollar bulb by the looks of it, and she could finally make out shadows above and eventually the tall willowy creature that’d taken her.

“Mister you speak to…” she screamed as a cold jet of water landed on her. Now she knew why this place was wet. She tried to escape, out maneuver it, but there was nowhere to go so she sunk to the floor and tried her best to cower away from it. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her sobs so she muffled them with her arm.

He blasted her a second time and then cut the water off. He appeared over the side, staring down at her with a hard unmoving stare. He had a little dog, a spoilt looking snowy white Bichon Frise, in his arms and he began lowering the bucket. He still had that same scraggly appearance and when he spoke his voice was still unearthly. “It rubs the lotion on its skin, it does whatever it's told.”

It? If she wasn’t so scared she’d tell him to go fuck himself. Instead she went back to her pleading. “Mister, please, call my mom. Senator Ruth Martin, she’ll give you what...”

“It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.” His little dog barked along with the command and he cooed, “Yes, she will, Precious. She will get the hose again.”

The bucket landed at her feet and she saw that there was a bottle of La Mer moisturising cream. Her mother used the same one. It was expensive. She took it out slowly contemplating, sizing him up and looking at her surroundings while she had the chance. She figured she was about 15 feet down, maybe if she could somehow pick out the cement between the bricks she could get enough of a hold to haul herself up and out.

“I said it puts the lotion on it’s skin or it gets the hose again.”

“Ok, ok, ok.” Her stomach lurched again. It was such a weird request and it sickened her. Why would he want her to do that? She did as she was told though, she didn’t want to be soaked again, rubbing the cold lotion on the upper chest and neck and under her arms were her skin chafed. “Mister, if you let me go, I won’t, I won’t press charges. I promise.” He raised a disbelieving and somewhat mocking eyebrow. She was definitely in trouble here. “See, my mom is a real important person but I guess you already know that.”

“Now it puts the lotion in the basket.”

“Please!” she cried, her tears stinging her raw cheeks. “I want to go home.” He twitched and she thought she might be reaching him. “I want to see my mommy. Please!” Her breath disappeared and she couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper anymore, “Please let me see my mommy.”

She heard some anxious breathing and looked up at him, pleading. It didn’t work.

Infuriated he shouted, “Put the fucking lotion in the basket!”

She did shakily and the bucket was pulled aloft quickly as if he was afraid she'd climb on and get out. A bottle of water landed at her feet with a thud and he started to walk away. She shouted after him, “Come back, don’t leave me down here!”

He looked down at her and smiled and that’s when she saw it: a manicured fingernail, painted red, embedded in the wall and sitting in a bloody smear. It still had some skin attached. She heaved, tasting bitter bile and then started screaming. Someone else had been down here, another girl. Her mind flipped as she imagined what he’d done to that girl, what he’d do to her.

She screamed and he mocked.

And then he turned out the light again.


	34. Chapter 34

The devil came not with any great fanfare or with any grand machiavellian cunning but rather as a poisonous snake with an overly slimy disposition and a side order of backstabbing. A well dressed snake in Manolo Blahnik’s and a Versace jacket dress but a snake all the same.

Mulder groped for the shrilling phone in the dark and answered groggily, annoyed to have been woken up from such a comfortable sleep. “Mulder.”

There was a soft nasal chuckle, a woman’s voice. He recognised it immediately as Lara Stone, the venal and opportunistic ‘ace’ reporter from Tattle magazine. She was the natural successor to Freddie Lounds and was working her way quickly to the top. While she didn’t quite occupy the same low mark as him she damn well tried. She scurried with the rats but didn’t quite live in the sewer. 

Yet.

“Hello sexy, how’s my favorite FBI Agent?”

He made an urgh sound as Scully shifted next to him and turned on the light. He checked his watch, not quite 1am. It surprised him, he’d not expected to sleep so long. Not that he was complaining. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he asked sleepily but alert.

Stone chuckled again and he could tell she was probably twirling her mustache. “News doesn’t take a break, you know that Fox.”

He looked at Scully who mouthed, “Is it the case?” He shook his head and was glad when she got up and went to the bathroom. When the door closed he replied, “Don’t call me Fox. How’s life in the gutter?”

Stone hummed, offended or amused he couldn’t tell, she ignored it. “I heard you were on a snipe hunt up in West Virginia, something to do with Hannibal Lecter.”

Ah. “News travels fast.”

“Only if you pay the right prices…”

“Sleep with the right people…”

“Touche.”

“Who told you anyway?” he wanted to know who'd been going to the press.

She laughed. “Don’t be a fool, I can’t tell you that and I didn’t call you to talk about my information line.”

"Yeah yeah a reporter never reveals their sources. So cliche." So boring. He was trying to figure out what she really wanted. A pound of flesh probably. “So you called to tell me I have a leak somewhere?” Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder he grabbed his underwear and pulled it on.

“No, I want to see you.”

He paused, nearly tripped over the leg of jeans as he pulled those on too. He was annoyed. The last time they'd been in the same room she’d tried to blow him. It wasn’t a particularly happy memory. His balls had practically jumped up into his body in fright. “Oh, why’s that?”

The toilet flushed in the other room and he listened out for Scully’s return, thankfully the door stayed shut and he sighed in relief when he heard the shower turn on.

“Nice food, nice company, old times?”

He looked at the phone curiously. Old times? Did they have any old times? He tried to think. They’d got drunk together a few times. They both liked tequila. He wouldn’t describe it as the good old days though. They’d shared innocent stories and memories of certain serial killers. They might even have kissed, that memory was stained in too much Vermouth though and he couldn’t be 100% certain. He was definitely certain of her blowjob attempt though. He was also certain about the grotty little expose she'd printed about him, that he was in leagues with the serial killers he hunted, how he was probably one himself.

"I'm busy," he snapped.

"You're angry."

"You're surprised?"

"We live in a world where misinformation is worth more money than truth, lies sell, you want me to say I'm sorry? Why? You know it wouldn't mean anything."

That was probably the truest truth he'd ever heard her speak. He allowed himself a smile. "Well regardless I’m washing my hair,” he said sarcastically.

“I can scrub your back, or have you already got that lovely red headed partner of yours to do it for you?”

He stopped dead in his tracks. Now he was listening. Who told you about her? He looked at the door then at the window and wondered if someone was watching. He wouldn’t put it past the people at Tattle. “How do you know about her?”

“I told you I have my sources. You need to start catching up Fox, you used to be more with it, more on the game.”

Yeah and it'd got a reporter killed. “I’m not interested in playing games.” At least not hers.

“You should be, I have something that might interest you.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Watching the bathroom door he hoped it wasn’t about Scully. Did Stone have something on her? Was she about to print something? He could ask Stone outright but that might give the game away about their relationship. There were careers to think of. Scully’s more than his, he didn’t really care about his own. He was worried. He needed to protect her. “What,” he finally said.

She was deliberately cryptic, “Not here, not now and not on the phone. Meet me, when you get back, tonight, and we’ll have a mutual exchange of information, that little restaurant near the Federal Triangle, Trattoria. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He doubted that. He found himself nodding though, he needed to know what she did. “Ok.”

She practically sing-songed, “Good, it’s a date, it’ll be like old times.” She was overly happy and he didn’t like it.

She hung up the phone before he could say anything else and he thumped the phone down. He was angry. He wondered if he was being played. Not for the first time he wondered if he was getting in over his head. When he'd agreed to look at this case it had only been in a consultant capacity. Somehow he'd edged up to lead investigator. He didn't like it. He didn't like feeling he was being manipulated, moved round a chess board.

Scully came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She smiled at him. He halfheartedly returned it. "Who was that?" she asked.

He shook his head, didn't want to involve her. "Nothing."

She contemplated him, he looked in another place altogether. "Work?"

Lara Stone was always hard work. "Something like that." 

"Anything you want to talk about."

"No," he said innocently. He probably should, and he probably would, when he found out what Stone had. No point involving her now, in nothing. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. "It's nothing honestly."

She didn't believe him, he was too breezy and had the disposition of a man who was trying to hide something, but dropped it. "Ok."

While grabbing his T-shirt and putting it on he asked, "You hungry?"

"Starving." They hadn't eaten since lunchtime.

"Good, there's a service station up the road I'll go and grab us something." He slipped his socks and shoes on quickly and grabbed his jacket. He was out the door before she had a chance to say anything more. He needed to do some digging. He needed to call Frohike, Danny Valladeo too.

Scully stared after him and chewed her lip. She knew she shouldn't, she trusted Mulder, but she picked up the phone and reverse dialled. It rang three times before a machine answered, "Hi, you've reached Lara Stone, I'm not in right now but..." she put the phone down and frowned.


	35. Chapter 35

Mulder seemed on edge, nervous. He was short in tone and perpetually annoyed, his answers to her questions clipped and very to the point. That was when he actually did speak to her, most of the time he just looked surly. He checked his watch every 10 minutes and kept looking around nervously, like he thought someone might be following them. She’d remarked that he seemed paranoid and he’d made such a bad joke in return that it’d killed any reply on her part for a good twenty minutes.

It was like he didn’t want to be here. Oh he’d still kissed her, he’d been doing that all day when he was certain they were alone (such as in her dorm room when he’d helped her with her bags, in an elevator on the way there, at breakfast in the little cafe they’d found) and had squeezed her hand on the ride over here, but it was like he had better things to do. It stung. For the first time she couldn’t work him out properly and that bothered her.

It didn’t help matters that he was dressed in the smartest black suit and tie she’d ever seen, he even had cufflinks on, his hair was styled with gel and he smelled like a very high-end corner of heaven. He looked expensive. That it didn’t seem to be for her benefit pissed her off. That he looked like he was going on a date pissed her off even more.

That he seemed to be doing it for the benefit of Lara Stone was even worse and set her teeth on edge too. She knew exactly who Lara Stone was, she knew the crap she peddled, how she got her information and her ‘exclusives’ by flashing her credit card and breasts at people. She’d done her research when she was reading about Lecter and had come across Stone’s name several times on the microfiche in the library at Quantico. She didn’t like her one bit and trusted her about as far as she could throw her. 

What she couldn’t work out was what she wanted from Mulder and why he was willingly walking towards her after all the stuff she'd written about him. He was playing a dangerous game indeed and she was concerned.

She was not happy about him keeping it from her either. That hurt the most. She hated clandestine behaviour and lies, she hated it from him. After everything they’d just been through too, after the night they’d just had. She still felt him, still had his loving words in her ear. When they’d eventually eaten, when he’d eventually turned up after being gone for over an hour, and they’d settled back in bed he’d whispered his plans for when this case was over. How he’d like to get away somewhere with her, date her properly.

She so badly wanted to shake him. If only he would just talk to her.

She trusted him and that wasn’t about to go out of the window. She did not trust Lara Stone however: sleazy tabloid hack and just as trashy. A vulgarian only interested in her own career and how quickly she could rise to the top. Stone used people. She would use Mulder too. She knew it. She just hoped he was smart enough to see it.

Scully banged on the apartment door they were currently standing outside of in frustration. She didn’t even know where the hell they were or who they were here to see. He’d been evasive. Or rather he’d been obstinate and obtuse.

When there was no answer Mulder thumped the door and looked up at the camera she hadn’t even known was there until he pointed it out.

“Open the damn door,” he shouted.

On the other side looks were withdrawn, chains dropped and a bolt lifted. She turned to look at Mulder and he just shrugged. Eventually a latch was turned and the heavy door opened and a smartly dressed man with a neatly trimmed beard appeared. Not as sharp looking as Mulder but he certainly looked smart, clean cut. Unquestionably he reeked of government. Or at least ex government.

As they were ushered inside and the locks were slammed back into place she thought definitely ex government and extremely paranoid. Maybe he’d stolen too many office supplies she mused to herself, perhaps he was afraid the stationary clerk would catch up to him. She couldn’t think of any other reason why such an unassuming man would have a reinforced steel door on a loft apartment in the middle of sub-suburban DC.

He nodded at Mulder, then smiled at her and extended his hand, “John Byers, call me Byers. You must be Scully?”

She wondered if anyone actually used first names anymore. She already felt like she’d lost hers since she’d joined the FBI. She smiled politely and took his offered friendship though, “Nice to meet you.”

He gestured at the door, “You’re probably wondering about all the locks?”

“No, not really, can’t be too careful these days.” Paranoid or not they weren’t exactly in a nice area of town.

He beamed like she was on his level. It couldn’t be further from the truth. “Drink? We have milk and, um, wine?” He blushed, scratching his head awkwardly, “Not really had a chance to go shopping yet.”

“No thank you,” she replied, nervously laughing. “It’s a little early for me.” It was only just after 4.

As Byers and Mulder chatted about some magazine called The Lone Gunman and some crank stuff about UFOs and JFK she looked around. There were more computers than she could count or name, modems and fax machines, a huge desk covered with all manner of technical things and in one corner a lab area, in another what looked like a printing press.

She walked towards it, keen to see what it was spitting out, but a ratty looking man shot out of a side room and jumped in front of her to warn, “I wouldn’t, it’s a little temperamental.” He looked her up and down and leered, “Well hello pretty lady.”

She smiled awkwardly and backed away. She couldn’t decide if he looked like a toad or an angry gnome. He was a little bit smaller than she was but a fair bit wider, and smelt of stale weed and engine oil. He was wiping his fingers on an old greasy rag. His jeans were covered too.

“This your new partner Mulder?” he asked, rushing to smarten himself by straightening his hat and throwing the cloth away. He found a chair to recline in, picked up a long lens camera and pointed it at her. She moved out of the way of the lens and frowned at him. He looked around it at her and smiled. “You’re right, she is hot.”

She glared at Mulder as he said, “Down Frohike.” Frokhike shrugged and took her picture anyway.

A third man appeared, tall with long blond hair and wearing a Ramones T-shirt, younger than the other two. He looked cautiously at her, had a kind of epiphany, smiled, and introduced himself as Langly and then went about his day telling Mulder he looked ‘sharp’ and then entered into a pointless argument with Frohike about the differences between the words dapper and sharp. She stayed out of it. She thought they were the same thing. Either way, it didn’t surprise her that Mulder had strange friends. They looked like the before, during and after of a mental breakdown.

“Who’s the lucky lady Mulder?” Langly asked at the end of the argument.

“Yeah and does she have a sister, mother or daughter?” Frohike enquired hopefully. “If she's young enough I’ll even take a grandmother.”

Mulder looked worriedly from Langly and Frohike to Scully but wisecracked, “No and sorry Frohike but you’re too much man for her.”

“So it is a ‘her’?” Frohike leered, “Make sure you give her my number. You know, just in case it doesn’t work out.”

“Not a date,” Mulder sing-songed. “It’s strictly business.”

“Bullshit, you don’t dress up like that for business.”

“You do where I’m going,” he mumbled. It sounded bitter to her ears.

Byers interjected with, “Well, date or not it’s nice to see you getting back out there Mulder, you know putting some effort in. We were a little worried after Diana left.” The other men agreed.

While all this had been going on Scully had been watching from the sidelines, half amused to see how uncomfortable Mulder was and half exasperated over his behaviour. She needed some space. It would be good to get back to her studies and not have to worry about any of this.

“I’d rather not talk about my personal life, if you don’t mind,” said Mulder.

Frohike shrugged. He reached over and grabbed a printed sheet of paper and handed it to Mulder. “What you asked for, you owe me big time for this.”

Mulder took it and heaved a sigh of relief. He tucked whatever Frohike had given him into his inside pocket and patted himself to make sure it was still there. Clearly it was a prize of some sort. More secrets. More layers of her stomach that fell away.

“Name your price,” Mulder said. Frohike looked at Scully and he was quick to add, “Something tangible, something not best described as pissing in the wind.” 

Scully couldn’t help laughing and Mudler smiled for the first time in a long time.

“We’ll talk later,” Frohike said, winking. Mulder merely rolled his eyes. “Of course your bug is a little outside of my purview but Byers thinks he might have something.”

“I have indeed.” Byers came forward, thankful to be of use, and typed something onto a computer and a whole host of insect images came up. “The image you faxed me was a little on the, shall we say, crappy side.” Mulder shrugged self-deprecatingly and Byers continued, “But, with the help of a friend at the Smithsonian who let me onto the ECSI, I managed to find and narrow a species down.”

“Sorry what’s the ECSI?” Scully asked, coming over to the screen and looking at the page Byers was perusing. It looked fascinating.

“The Entomological Collections and Species Inventory,” Mulder replied, he was busy not looking at the screen, apparently bugs were not his thing. “They’re setting up a searchable online catalog for the general public, it’s still in its infant stage though.”

“That’s amazing!” She didn’t know anything about bugs and creepy crawlies and this information genuinely fascinated her. She would love to have access to that, all those latin names she could memorise!

“Right, but it really is still in its beta phase.” Byers replied. “I mean there are 900 thousand species of known insect so it’s going to take some time.”

“That’s 80% of this planet's population,” added Langly. “And even then the estimations are cautious. The Smithsonian puts a conservative estimate at 2 million but the number could be as high as 30.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure and insects probably have the largest biomass of the terrestrial animals. At any time, it’s estimated that there are like 10 quintillion individual insects alive.”

“Needless to say,” said Byers. “There are more insect species that have not been described than there are insect species that have been previously named.”

Mulder shuddered so she asked, “You don’t like insects Mulder?”

“We haven’t had the best of friendships over the years.” He particularly hated maggots and praying mantises. “It’s why I leave it to the experts.” He tipped his head towards Byers who went a little red under the scrutiny.

“Well, hardly an expert, just a dilettante.” He turned the screen more towards Scully. “Anyway, your creature is of the species Lepidoptera, a moth to be precise.”

“And how many species of Lepidoptera are there?” she asked.

“About 13,000, and that’s just in America. ” he replied. “The majority of which are moths, there’s actually only around 825 species of butterflies here”

“Well, all this is very interesting, but it doesn’t really narrow it down,” she sighed truthfully.

“On the contrary Agent Scully. Mulder, where's that sample you promised me?”

Mulder pulled the little jar out of his pocket and handed it over to Byers who held it up to the light fascinated. He moved over to a laboratory area of the room and began switching on lights and moving an overhead magnifying glass around. She looked after him horrified.

“Mulder, that’s evidence.”

“Gee I hope so.”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean shouldn’t that already be at the Bureau lab?”

“Have you seen the processing time there? We need this now, not in 3 weeks.”

“But what if someone asks where it is?”

“Then I’ll tell them the truth, that’s it’s with an independent expert.” He got up and walked away to join the others leaving her feeling prickly. “Are you coming or not?” he called.

She didn’t like this but he was right, the labs were ridiculously backlogged. She threw her hands up in the air in defeat and followed.

Byers already had the brown cocoon in a steel tray positioned under the magnifying glass and was using a pair of tweezers and a periodontal probe to ease out the moth from it’s sodden chrysalis. They were all hunched over watching.

“The trick is,” he was saying. “Is to remove the chrysalis without destroying it. The wings are just like wet tissue paper.”

She watched curiously as he began peeling back the layers and then spread the moth out, it’s large wings spread wide. She was perfectly happy to concede that Byers did at least know what he was doing.

“Meet Mister Acherontia styx.”

He moved aside for them all to have a proper look. It was huge, easily 4 inches, and long. That it’d been stuffed down someone’s throat was astonishing. She gazed intently and then gasped. Right on the wide furry brown back of the moth, right between the wing bases on the thorax, was the perfect reproduction of a ghostly human skull.

“Better known to his friends as the death’s-head moth.”

She looked at Mulder who was looking up at the ceiling in a silent condemnation of God and all that was holy. She didn’t blame him. “From Acheron and Styx, two rivers in the underworld, no doubt.”

In reply Mulder recited, "It is regarded not as the creation of a benevolent being, but the device of evil spirits, spirits enemies to man, conceived and fabricated in the dark, and the very shining of its eyes is thought to represent the fiery element whence it is supposed to have proceeded. Flying into their apartments in the evening at times it extinguishes the light; foretelling war, pestilence, hunger, death to man and beast."

“That’s chilling,” offered Frohike, turning to look at his friend.

To lighten the mood Mulder quipped, “In Danish they’re called doodshoofdvlinder.”

There were a few appreciative smiles. “But what’s it’s significance?” she asked.

“Change.” That was all he would say on the matter.

“Your man, he drops these girls into rivers, every time. Didn't I read that?”

Neither of them answered Langly’s question. Instead Scully asked, “Are they native to here?”

Byers shook his head and went back to the computer and read aloud, “They live in Malaysia and other parts of Asia.”

“So they’d have to be imported, raised from eggs?” Scully was awed by the discovery and had multiple lines of enquiry she wanted to take up.

Byers nodded.

Outside in the hallway a little while later, the bug packaged up carefully for transportation, Scully was excited, her words a rush as they walked quickly, “There are import and export logs to look at, breeders, we should probably cross reference exotic animal sellers too. Oh and I was thinking about observing the autopsy for our Clay victim.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “Why don’t you go back to Quantico and do that, I’m sure the body will’ve got there by now. If she gives you trouble tell Nancy Spiller I cleared it.”

She stopped as they reached the car. “What about you?”

He tossed her the keys and stepped out to hail a cab. “I have dinner plans.”

“Oh?”

He was looking for a reaction. She gave none and he relaxed. “Just a work thing. Nothing important really.”

“Anywhere nice,” she sounded too casual even to her own ears.

“No.”

A cab pulled up and she watched him through narrow eyes. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

He laughed, “More than likely out of my depth yes.”


	36. Chapter 36

In the cab, and after telling the driver where to go, he took one last look at Scully out of the side window as they pulled away from the curb and slumped back in his seat. She looked angry. He didn’t blame her. He would be too. He hated lying to her. He was angry at himself, wondering why he could trust her with his innermost secrets but not this. Yes he was trying to protect her, if there was anything to protect her from, but he also wondered if keeping her in the know would be a better form of defense. Keeping her in the dark was already threatening their natural intimacy and it made him feel like crap.

He resolved to tell her everything tonight. Once he got this over and done with. Once he found out what exactly Stone wanted, what she had. He briefly looked at the piece of paper Frohike had given him and rolled his eyes.

Thankfully the journey to the Federal Triangle was mercifully short and he was soon being ushered to a booth at the back by the stiff maitre d'.

Trattoria didn’t just reek of pretension, it was pretension. Sure it looked nice: lots of polished oak and leather, nice low lighting, unobtrusive piano music and just the right amount of the obscure art he liked but it was the kind of place that charged $60+ for an appetizer and you had to wear stupid clothes to get in the door. It was fine dining to the extreme. Already his wallet was crying and he wasn’t even paying. Information costs indeed he mused.

He spotted Lara Stone from a mile away, looking her usual shifty self. She rather reminded him of a scurrying critter, afraid of light and always on alert whenever noise got too loud and close. To her credit she looked the part otherwise: she was dressed in a slinky black dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination and her long blond hair was in an elaborate French braid resting on her uncovered tanned shoulder. She was, he was loath to admit, rather nice looking tonight.

It was a real shame her personality was so slippery and he didn't really want to be here.

She rose up when she saw him and smiled, kissed his cheek when he reached the table. “You look incredible, I could eat you,” she whispered, meaning every word.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he whispered with a temper. He didn’t return the kiss and she glowered a little but didn’t sulk and offered him a seat opposite which he took, easing himself down gently.

“Would you like me to leave you alone to get acquainted or can I get you a drink?” the maitre d' asked.

“I’m actually ready to order,” Mulder replied and Stone raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. He knew this place, had been here before. He grew up with fine things so knew how to navigate them. Besides he was hungry and the magazine was picking up the tab so he was going to take advantage. “I will have the prosciutto crudo di parma followed by the pumpkin risotto and then the fillet of seabass with broccoli, my friend here will have the duck foie gras, the pumpkin risotto followed by the pigeon on a bed of seasoned mushrooms, we would both like the cheesecake and a class each of the 1922 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.”

The maitre d' smiled happily and nodded his head, “Exquisite taste sir.”

“Exquisite indeed, expensive too” she said after the other man had left. He could tell she was costing everything up as her eyes watered when she reached a cool $1000 (including tip). “Never let it be said that you don’t know how to treat a lady.”

“And never let it be said that I don’t know how to spend other people’s money.”

She chuckled appreciatively. “Well it’s not mine either so what the hell. You look well, still bothered by the old war wound I see.”

As always when anyone mentioned it his hand went defensively to his stomach. At least she hadn’t come armed with a camera to take pictures of it like Lounds had done in the hospital. “It’s fine.” Their wine arrived and he took a luxurious sip. He wasn’t a wine person, he was happy with a cold bear, but at $250 a glass he was going to savour it. “So, why am I here?”

“Straight to business? You’re no fun anymore,” she whined. “There used to be a time when you preferred a bit more of a tête-à-tête, a little flirtation as I recall.”

“That was before you printed that bullshit in that rag of yours.” And he wouldn’t call it a flirtation, more gentle teasing. “And you tried to blow me.”

“Trash sells.” She lit a cigarette and smirked as she blew smoke up at the ceiling. “And, as I recall, it was your idea.”

“I was joking, I didn’t expect you to try!”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, “Stop being such a fucking bitch baby, it’s not like I succeeded. Much to my disappointment.” 

She made an obscene gesture with her hand and mouth and he crossed his legs. Their starters arrived after a bit of idle chit chat and he tucked in, “So enough about me, how is life at Tattle?”

“Can’t complain, our readership is up tenfold this last quarter.”

“That’s because you fetishize the depraved, publicise the perpetrators of terrible crimes and further deny the victims a voice.”

“Righteous indignation suits you,” she said as she finished her cigarette and picked up her fork. She contemplated him a long while and then laughed, “I’m serious. I don’t think you’ve ever been sexier, you should get yourself a real cause, environmentalism or those UFOs you were telling me about last year.”

She actually did look like she meant it. Personally he felt he looked ridiculous in his suit and couldn’t wait to put on something a bit more casual: even if it was another suit. “Fuck off.”

“Like I said: no fun. You act so serious all the time. You’ve been acting like you died for far too long.”

She sighed heavily, mourning, and while she didn’t say ‘It's no wonder your wife left’ he felt it. He felt sad. She was right. He wasn’t the same person he used to be and he hadn’t been happy for a long time. Scully was helping though. His world felt brighter for her being in it. He woke up with a smile on his face and a skip to his step. She wasn’t a cure all but she certainly shined a light towards his darkness. It was actually blinding at times. It was good, she was good.

He finished his prosciutto in silence.

As their plates were swapped for their next course Stone remarked, “It’s nice in here, will you bring your girlfriend?”

He looked up suspiciously, tried to deny it, “I don’t have…”

She chuckled and pulled a file out of her expensive Italian handbag resting on the seat next to her and put two pictures on the table. One showed him kissing Scully in the cafe where they’d had breakfast and the other showed her greeting him at the door of their motel last night after he’d got back. She was wearing his shirt and a smile and her long hair looked damp, she most definitely looked like she was inviting him in.

“Where did you get those,” he demanded. “Are you following me?” Honestly he wasn’t surprised given she already knew about Scully anyway. It still annoyed to see the quick evidence though and his need to protect Scully kicked up another notch.

“Oh don’t look so surprised.” She examined the pictures and mocked, “She’s very pretty. Scully isn’t it? The endearingly innocent ingenue, all doe eyed and sweet.”

He was fuming. He grabbed his coat and got up to leave. He knew it was a bad idea coming here. He pointed at her, “Leave her alone. I don’t care what bullshit you print about me but she doesn’t deserve to have her name dragged through the mud in your filthy magazine.” He was loud enough for other patrons to look down their noses at him.

“Oh do sit down. I’m not interested in her, at least not yet, and she’s perfectly innocent, believe me I looked.” She scoffed, being innocent was offensive to her. “She’s as clean as a whistle. Though there was a youthful reprimand from the fire department for an out of control bonfire on prom night. Isn’t it darling that she put that on her FBI application?” she laughed. She looked at him pointedly, “Oh and an affair with a married man, her professor in med school, but we’ve all been there,” she waved it away. “She certainly has a type though doesn’t she.

Her past romances were none of his business. She could’ve fucked Skinner for all he cared… Well maybe not him. The sentiment still stood for everyone else though. He sat. “So what is all this then?”

She ate some of her risotto, let him stew. Eventually, after she’d finished her dish she said, “Leverage. Imagine what the Bureau would think of an experienced officer, one whose divorce hasn’t gone through yet, and a young recruit. You could be censured. She could be asked to leave her training program. She’s a woman, she’s always more likely to be seen as the seductress. I also don’t think any of Lecter’s victim’s families would appreciate her repeated visits to him, that you're prioritising a convicted cannibal over the welfare of the victims. I could spin it a certain way. Maybe it’s a flirtation, maybe it’s a love affair you know. In other words, I could make her very famous or I could leave her alone.”

He pointed at her, “I suggest you leave her alone.”

“And I will if you tell me about the woman in Clay and her connection to Lecter.”

“I’m surprised you don’t already know the details.”

She shrugged as the waiter came to check if everything was ok with their meals. They just glared at each other and he quickly left. “I know enough. However those West Virginian bumpkins really can’t be bought.” She almost spat disdainfully. “And unfortunately my source only has limited access.”

He smiled slowly. “Your source is a jackass.”

“He has his uses.”

“Not for very much longer.” Her eyes narrowed and then her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He spelt it out for her. “You’re not the only one who deals in information.”

“You don’t know,” she scoffed.

“Tom Colton.” She tried to appear nonchalant at the revelation but failed. She looked fucked. “He accessed the case files after the Clay victim came in and then used the bureau phone in his own room to call you.” It’d been easy to find out. Danny had looked into all the unauthorised access to the files and Frohike had traced the pathways through various extensions. To give Colton some credit he had tried to cover his tracks. It was a shame he was an idiot.

“Fucking moron.” She rolled her eyes. Lit another cigarette. “Oh well it was good while it lasted. And don’t look at me like that,” she remarked at his disapproving look. “You think it’s easy being a female journalist? I’ve had to work twice as hard as everyone else to get where I am.” There was no sympathy from him so she said, “So Lecter?”

“She has no connection to Lecter.”

“But you’re consulting him on a profile for Buffalo Bill?”

Some guess. He shrugged and finished his wine. “Are we done here?”

“We haven’t had our main course yet.” She pulled out more photos, the Clay victim. Crime scene photos from the ditch she’d been found in. Not quite Ophelia but still desperately sad. “My source gave these to me. We’re ready to publish.”

He put his hand up quickly. They hadn’t even identified her yet. “Don’t.”

“Tell me what Lecter has said.”

“So far nothing, just a promise if we meet his demands.”

“Typical bluster.” She rolled her eyes and laughed around her puff, “I wrote to him recently, he sent me back a recipe for an intestinal curry.”

“Delightful. I suppose you sold it.”

“Naturally I sold it to Mason.”

Mason would buy anything connected to Lecter and at a very high price. He wasn’t sure if he was building a shrine or destroying it so nobody could profit from such terrible acts. He had no time for Mason Verger though so didn’t care to find out. Occasionally he’d be summoned to the mansion but he always refused the invitation and someone in the justice department would boil their nut over his bad manners. He had no time for his kind though.

Hardly in the mood for chat he still felt the need to ask, “How is Mason?”

“His typical bitter and angry little self, still bed ridden for the most part. You know he has pet moray eels now. I heard he likes to threaten little boys with them.” She gagged and he grimaced. “Anyway, the matter at hand. I want details. I want exclusives. I want to know about victims as and when they come in and...”

“And?”

“And I keep Scully’s name away from this and your horny little self can go on fucking her in happy anonymity.”

He contemplated it. He was only sure of one thing at the moment: he hated Lara Stone. He actually pined for Freddie Lounds. Lounds might’ve been a vulturous bastard but he had talent, his sleeze was at least sophisticated, and he worked out of a need to vindicate his tabloid related work. Stone was just a blackmailing bitch and she’d finally stepped that level lower into the sewer. She didn’t just swim with the rats, she was the rats.

He didn’t want Scully hurt though or her career ruined. He felt like a dead man walking as he knew what Stone was capable of. He chewed his lip. He had an idea as their main course was added onto the table, the waiter asking if he was alright as he hadn’t finished his risotto. “You can have exclusivity after this is over. Nothing else.”

“I want the victim details and Lecter’s involvement.” She tapped her photo pile.

“And you’ll leave Scully out of your magazine?”

She held her hands up. “Absolutely.”

He didn’t believe her but felt like he had no choice. “Ok.” He would make a deal with the devil to keep Scully safe and out of the public eye.

She grinned, “Good, now that’s all over and done with I have something else for you, a little, shall we say, good will gesture.”

She pulled out a file from her bag and handed it over. He opened it and grimaced.

"You're a bitch, you know that, don't you?"

She grinned. "Only the best. But," she tapped the file in his hand, "I'm sure you'll agree even I have my uses."

He didn't reply. He picked up his coat and left.


	37. Chapter 37

Three days. That’s how long it’d been since she’d last heard from Mulder. Three whole days and not a single word. He wasn’t in when she called either his office or his apartment and when she went down to Violent Crimes he was conveniently out. A note had gone unanswered and in the end she’d given up. She didn’t want to look desperate. He would now have to come to her.

She didn’t know how to feel. Upset definitely, angry certainly. Confused too.

She knew she shouldn’t have gotten involved. Yet another inappropriate relationship in a long line of them. It was just history repeating itself all over again. Daniel had been both married and her teacher, Jack was her instructor and now Mulder was a trained Agent tasked with supervising her in the field (not to mention he was married too, albeit very separated).

How could she have been so stupid! 

She cursed herself in frustration. What had she been thinking?

She was perfectly happy to take on Reyes’ advice and date whoever the hell she wanted to, guilt free, but that also meant choosing better mates surely? Not sleeping with unavailable men who wouldn’t even give her a courtesy call.

She tried not to think the worst of Mulder, he was definitely different she knew. He treated her as an equal, challenged her, pushed her, respected her, involved her in the case properly and even though they’d started sleeping together his professionalism hadn’t slipped. It was just this. She wanted to believe that Mulder’s silence was born out of a need to protect, that he was trying to shield her from the murky world of tabloid journalism, but it was hard, especially as she had no experience, or proof, to go on.

What she was more sure of was that she felt lost without his company. If she ever spoke to him again she’d already resolved herself to ask him to work on his communication.

She tried to not to dwell too much on it by hitting the books and getting stuck into her lessons again, rejoicing that she’d gotten her pathology posting. It would be a two year accelerated program and she’d have to teach alongside it but it was a dream come true for her. Even her father had been pleased as, in his words, it meant that he “didn’t have a daughter out in the damn field.” It wasn’t exactly a congratulations but it was a start so she’d taken it.

Away from casinos and money laundering she’d even started to love her training again and was soaking everything up. Learning about fibre collection and how the signature of fibres can be revealed with the aid of an electron microscope was fascinating. They’d even been allowed to look at some evidence from the Buffalo Bill case: two blouses that Mulder had shown her in the canteen. They’d analysed how they were cut and how Bill used the same pair of scissors. She’d wondered if that was Mulder’s doing.

Now she was busy stalking down a grubby hotel corridor on the Quantico lot besides Colton, weapon in hand, advancing on a fake hostage situation. She was breathing hard in the dimly lit narrow corridor and sweating buckets. Ahead of them they could hear the fake hostage situation going down. Some maids (played capably by Agent Trainee Reyes and someone callen Janet Teller) and a bellhop (another Agent Trainee called Richard Dashwood) were pretending to sob and were crying out, their captors telling them to shush.

She pressed herself firmly against the wall and inched along it with her back. She patted her kevlar body armour, made sure her revolver was cocked and ready (even though they weren’t using rounds, the chamber was empty, she still wanted to look the part, do everything right as they were being watched) and looked to Colton who motioned for her to hold her position. They wouldn’t advance and enter the room until someone gave them a radio signal via a headset. Another team were supposed to be going in via another door on the other side of the room.

He looked at her quizzically after checking around a corner, “You still working the Buffalo Bill thing?”

“Colton,” she hissed. “This is neither the time or the place.”

“But are you?”

Yes she was, in a roundabout way. She’d been helping out in the labs and the autopsy of the Clay victim had wielded some good results and she’d been keeping up with the investigation by asking around and reading about the latest salacious revelations in Tattle. She sighed, checked her position again, “That’s none of your business.”

He hissed, “I went down to violent crimes yesterday, Mulder had me up against a wall by the scruff of my neck and told me to fuck off, I’m thinking of putting in a complaint.”

She lowered her weapon and stood straight. At least one of them could get hold of him. It meant he’d gotten her messages and was still choosing to ignore her. Her mood about it sank ever lower. “What did you say to him?” She guessed it was an open secret so didn’t see any point in hiding it any longer.

“Nothing!” he protested too loudly and she shushed him as someone in the room called out for quiet like they were listening for approaching policemen. It eventually subsided and he said, “I asked if there was any background stuff that needed doing and he called me an invertebrate scumsucker.”

“That’s not very nice,” she smirked, thinking that actually it was probably accurate and Colton probably wasn’t telling the whole story. He spent every waking moment asking about active cases and whether or not he could help and join in. “Are you sure that’s all you said?” Thinking it was safe she checked around the corner again and inched a little closer, Colton following.

“Scouts honour,” he saluted.

The room where the hostages were held went quiet and they knew the moment where they’d have to go in was close.

“He’s probably just stressed, it’s a difficult case.”

“He’s a prick and I’m going to make sure he’s censured for it.”

She rolled her eyes. Maybe the name calling was a little over the top but there was no reason to file an official complaint. “Give him a day or two, maybe he’ll apologize.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he snorted. “You have any information, you know gossip, you can talk about though, if they’re any closer to identifying the Clay victim or closing in on a suspect?”

“Why?”

“I’m interested, I want this to end as much as the next man.” She eyed him and he corrected himself, “Or woman.”

“No.”

He looked at her and tutted disbelievingly and opened his mouth to say something else. However, as they navigated the corner properly and the room came into sight finally there was an almighty cracking sound like splintering wood, the sound and smell of a smoke bomb going off and voices in their ear shouting, “Go, go, go!”

Colton swung his foot up and kicked in the door, immediately the smoke cloud hit their nostrils but she could still see everything. Reyes was on the bed, her hands tied behind her back, Teller was on the floor by the nightstand. She couldn’t see the other hostage or the kidnappers but she could see the other Agent Trainees, guns raised.

Scully shouldered aside the shattered door and rushed inside, gun at the ready, held firm in both hands. She could see one of the suspects standing by a fake window, gun pointed at Dashwood’s red hair covered head. She dropped into a combat stance, gun extended, and shouted, “Freeze FBI!”

All sound seemed to disappear, time seemed to slow down, as the other suspect emerged from the space to the side of the bashed in door, the muzzle appeared right against her temple, pressing in painfully and she couldn’t react. She knew she was a dead woman as Marty Neal pulled the trigger, a metallic click in her ear screaming like failure.

A loud buzzer went off signalling the end of the simulation and the lights went up. Colton shook his head, deeply annoyed and muttered, “For fucks sake Scully.”

She took Neal's offered hand and let him pull her up. He shrugged apologetically but she shrugged it off. She would learn.

“Scully, congratulations, you’re dead,” Willis said sarcastically while eyeing her up but he patted her on the shoulder as she passed to go and untie Reyes. “Keep an eye on your blindspots. Colton, good job. You looked around you, you assessed the room and knew where your danger points were.” He turned to address the room, “Good exercise everyone, let’s take an hour and then meet back in the classroom for a full debrief and discussion. I want honest assessments, people: what you thought you did right, where did you do wrong, how you could improve.”

Reyes now untied they decided to go and evaluate the role-play together. As they were leaving Willis stopped her, “Did you get my note?” he asked.

It was in the bin somewhere in West Virginia. Unread. “No, I’ve been so busy. I’m sorry.”

He nodded in actual understanding. “That’s ok,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “I’m kind of glad you didn’t. I... I… I was kind of drunk when I wrote it.” He scratched his head and then shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets and generally being nervous. “Marriage proposals shouldn’t be made on the back of 8 beers.”

“Oh please tell me you didn’t!” She was horrified and embarrassed.

He laughed, “I figured that would be your reaction, don’t worry, I’m not about to sweep you off your feet, I just wanted to apologise in case you had read it.”

If he hadn’t said anything, she wouldn’t have known. That would’ve been for the best and now she couldn’t work out his motivations. She said thanks anyway and was about to leave.

“You wanna get together later, a catch up drink?”

“Jack…” Thankfully nobody else was around to hear, Reyes deciding to wait outside.

“Can’t blame a guy for tryin’ right, you seeing anyone?”

She didn’t know how to answer that. Was she in a relationship, was she just having casual sex, and was it now over? She didn’t know. “I’m just concentrating on getting through the academy, you know, spending some time working on myself right now.” SHe laughed, “Working on my blindspots.”

“Right,” he smiled. “When you graduate then?”

“Maybe.”

“Watch your back,” he shouted after her but she only half heard.

She walked away, feeling more laden down than ever before. What the hell was he even thinking telling her that. She caught up with Reyes who was quickly gesturing for her to hurry up. Ahead of them, in one of the recreation areas, people were crowded around a small television listening intently as a photograph of a larger woman flashed up on screen.

“Catherine Martin was at first listed as a missing person, but is now, according to FBI sources, believed to have been kidnapped by the serial killer known only as ‘Buffalo Bill’” The anchor, a middle aged black man in a smart suit and tie, appeared on screen as they quickly found a place amongst the throng of bodies, near the front, and listened intently to the man. “Memphis Police also indicate that evidence found at the scene has been identified as belonging to Catherine Martin and are calling the find a ‘grim calling card’. Catherine Martin is the eldest daughter of US Senator Ruth Martin…”

Scully looked at Reyes, surprised, stunned even. Catherine Martin was such a high profile victim. Their killer was taking risks. Other trainees filtered into the space, some whispering amongst themselves as the news anchor continued.

“...the Republican Junior Senator from Tennessee. Catherine Martin’s kidnapping is not thought to be politically motivated, however it has stirred the government to its highest levels with President Bush said to be, and I quote, ‘intensely concerned’. Just moments ago Senator Martin made this dramatic plea from her home…”

On the TV Senator Martin came into focus and filled the screen. Tall, late 40s and with a strong face she, understandably, looked troubled and had been crying before stepping in front of the jostling crowd of reporters who lit her with their lens flares. She was struggling to remain calm and get her words out but she did.

“I’m speaking to the person who is holding my daughter. Her name is Catherine. You have the power to let Catherine go, unharmed. She’s very calm and gentle, talk to her and you’ll see. Her name is Catherine…”

Disturbed by what was unfolding Scully was nevertheless moved by what she was seeing and hearing. Senator Martin knew what she was doing, someone had coached her well. It was smart.

“Why does she keep repeating the name?” asked Reyes.

Her eyes still fixed on the screen she replied, in somewhat of a daze, “Somebody's coaching her... They're trying to make him see Catherine as a person, not just an object.”

“You have the chance to show the whole world that you can be merciful, as well as strong. Please, I beg you, release my Catherine…”

Pictures of Catherine Martin flashed up showing her in various stages of her life, a 5 year birthday party, a high school graduation, at a waterpark, with friends at a concert, a garden party, at a fast food restaurant. 

All happier times.

The news article moved again to show a taped-off section of a parking lot outside of Catherine’s apartment. Technicians, with instruments, are kneeling by a crushed grocery bag, another was looking at something in a gutter.

A second news anchor, this time a woman, continued in voice over, “Meanwhile in Memphis, the investigation continued throughout the night, as state and local authorities were joined at the kidnap scene by agents of the FBI…”

She spotted Mulder walking towards the apartment of Catherine Martin, Purdue and Skinner in tow. Skinner moved quickly towards a patrolman indicating they should move the media cordon back. Some of the other trainees sent up a cheer at the sight of the three men but she looked away, she felt troubled by Mulder being out there on his own.

Reyes turned sympathetically towards her troubled friend. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah. Just thinking I should be out there, trying to be useful you know.” Comforting the family, helping gather evidence, talking to people. Anything. As it was she was here feeling powerless and on the outside.

Someone switched the TV off and she resolved to go to the lab and see what evidence was filtering in from the crime scene. Perhaps there was something she could do there. She wouldn't let this case go.


	38. Chapter 38

It was dark and he couldn’t see. There was only noise. Loud music, though he couldn’t make out the words of the intrusive tune, some echoey techno nonsense or maybe post-punk, it had a decent beat, what was it? Something about horses. It didn’t really matter beyond that it hurt his ears but if he could maybe pinpoint where it was coming from he’d know where he was. A keyboard, maybe an electronic drum. He quickly gave up. It was hopeless. Too many other noises. A cacophony of them. He could hear the heavy beating of wings all too close. They felt both above him and on him, making his skin itch. He tried to bat them away but they were always just out of his reach. So near and yet so far. He called out in fear and frustration and the noises stopped, the scraping of a chair a long way above, and then humming.

Footsteps too. Someone was moving around above him. He called out again but either they didn’t hear or they didn’t want to. Perhaps they did and were enjoying his screams. He stopped, tried to grope around a bit, all he could feel was slippery wet brick. He tried to think about where he was: in a hole somewhere. Not that farm. It was deeper than that. Where though and how did he get here? He couldn’t think. Too much noise. Another scraping of chair, the buzz of electricity and the unmistakable slow and methodical thump, thump, thump of a sewing machine arm. He knew that sound anywhere, his mom had one, it was ancient, an old Singer from the 1950s or 60s. He covered his ears and sat back down. Something landed close to his foot and he cowered away. Another landed nearby and another and another. The moths he realised. They were going to embed themselves in his throat. His blood felt cold.

Above him a blazing light suddenly snapped on blinding him. He could make out the shape of a man standing watch if he shielded his eyes. He couldn’t see who but he could hear the man’s strange staccato laugh. 

A high powered beep.

Mulder jerked awake, pulled out his troubled sleep by his answerphone kicking on.

“Fox, this is your father,” the cold stern elder voice behind his head was saying and he flinched and tried to reacquaint himself with the real world. “I saw you on the news tonight, the Catherine Martin case, this Buffalo Bill serial killer. I know Catherine’s mother, good friend of mine, nice family. I said I’d speak to you. So I’m speaking to you. Don’t let me down and don’t embarrass the family.”

More guilt and heavy expectation. Breathing heavily he groped in the dark for his lamp and switched it on. Sitting up on his couch he pulled his sweat soaked T-Shirt off over his head and reached for the glass of water that sat stagnating on the coffee table. 

He felt rotten. He gulped the water down and went for some more from his kitchen while he tried to figure out his dream. Dreams like that were hardly rare, he only had to close his eyes and all the horrors he’d experienced and encountered would flood back, but rarely did he ever see himself in the place of the victim. Usually he was a bystander, in his BSU days he imagined himself as the perpetrator, though not any more. Bill Patterson had this idea that if you wanted to catch a monster you had to become one yourself. It was something he couldn’t manage, not totally, didn't believe in. He wasn’t about to start sizing up wells to fit victims in that’s for sure. He shuddered at the thought.

He shook it off and went back to the couch, tried to think of what he’d seen. A well. That was pretty much it. It’d been so dark. He shuddered again at the thought of those moths.

He thought he might be going mad. Madness was not a sudden enemy but a creeping plague, a conundrum that couldn’t be solved.

At least that’s what Lecter had said.

He was starting to think that Lecter was right. At least about madness anyway.

He dismissed it. He wasn’t mad. Not at all. He just felt like he was heading that way.

Stuck in an infinite loop of pressure, stress, expectation and a mounting workload. His brain felt like an extinguished fire. Once it burned bright, a huge flame of curiosity and knowledge, of wanting to learn and know more, push the boundaries of a limitless world. There was a lot of light. A lot of hope. A wife, talk of children one day, a nice enough place to live, a good job, everything a man should have at his time of life. An attempt at normality.

All gone.

Even the embers had had enough and any spark that might have ordinarily been there died in an instant, refusing the match. His brain felt foggy and his mind was full of dark thoughts. The world felt alien, strange and, while he’d always felt somewhat of an outsider, he really felt it now.

Empty. 

That’s how he felt. A hollow shell of a man.

He looked up at the ceiling of his apartment from his position back on the couch and bit his lip. Thinking. He was always thinking. Maybe that was the problem: his inability to switch off.

He needed to concentrate on the good. He had his newly found X-Files. Thousands of files relating to unexplained phenomena. He read at least 10 a day, some of them multiple times. They fascinated and enthralled, it gave him plenty to think about, plenty to research, plenty of new books to buy. He loved books, his whole bedroom was now mostly a storage room (he’d not had much use for a bed when he wasn’t in much or had anyone to share it with), a library, baring a pathway to the bathroom.

Some of the files were full of bullshit of course, for example: Jesus and Elvis couldn’t really be in all those taco chips, often UFO sightings really were just clouds of gas or Venus, and there were a few too many spurious reports of anal probes, but there was enough of everything else to warrant serious investigations. There were plenty of victims too and even if the explanations turned out to be of this world their voices still needed to be heard. They needed someone to believe them as much as he wanted to believe.

That’s where he felt his talents lay, in dealing with people and their problems (and hell maybe some of these so-called mothmen and lizard creatures, these aliens on a foreign world, needed a voice too). Yeah he wanted to prove some of this stuff too, and find his sister in the process, but actually talking to people, actually speaking to them personally about the things they’d experienced and documenting it for himself was what he really wanted to do. Profiling was just examining evidence, drawing up assumptions, and quite frankly he was sick and tired of having to deal with the worst of humanity, the dispassionate but violent sociopaths and the crazed psychotics with mommy issues. Circumstances that produced men whose pleasure lay on numerous porcelain and steel tables up and down the country.

The X-Files would be about dealing with the unknown and with real people with real, albeit otherworldly, issues and just as he applied his psychology training to his profiling and field work he would do the same with his paranormal investigations, he would do it properly. He’d already spoken to Senator Richard Matheson to try and drum up some interest in it. He would petition Skinner and the FBI director too when this case was done and dusted with. If he still had a job that was.

That was one positive. Another was Scully. He also had her.

Or at least he had Scully. 

A few days ago he was making sense of the world again, feeling joy and waking up happy. Life was a straight line, logic was a fork in the road rather than a never ending loop. Scully was everything he’d ever hoped for in another person: studious, observant, knowledgeable, inquisitive, funny and the best thing was she rather liked him back.

She was beautiful too, stunning even. He knew she didn’t believe that of herself despite her outward confidence but god she was beguiling. He’d been smitten as soon as she’d walked into his office, touching his stuff and imprinting herself onto his soul. He thought of her long red hair that reminded him of the spirit of her personality, her freckles that hinted at the night sky outside, how he’d tried to trace them with his lips and tongue, how he’d been desperate to learn all of her.

God he missed her so much.

He sighed and thought about calling her but didn’t. He’d already convinced himself that not contacting her was for the best. If he kept her away from the meat of this case then she wouldn’t be in anyone’s sights.

He put the glass down and scrubbed his face in his hands before picking up the forensic report from the Clay victim. She had brick dust under her nails along with cement and skin from another of the victims which in a perverse way was actually quite helpful as they could connect the victims forensically, they now at least knew the women had been held in the same hellhole. The Clay victim also had the same moth species in her throat as Raspail did. 

He looked at the photographs of the cocoons and the moths layed out in all their glory. A harbinger of death, omens appearing throughout literature from Bram Stoker to Thomas Hardy. The papers and books he had out before him told him that while butterflies were thought of as fairies and inherently good, moths were witches, demons and evil. There was even the Mothmen in the book he was reading about the Point Pleasant Silver Bridge collapse where some connected the disaster to sightings they’d had of strange human sized moth like creatures with red eyes.

There was nothing supernatural about this case however.

He’d told Scully that he thought the moths represented change. He still believed that. Death and rebirth. Transformation. Regeneration. In changing from a mundane brown cocoon and caterpillar and going through stages of dissolution the species Lepidoptera emerged as a winged insect with delicate patterns and new motivations. It was significant.

But how? 

That’s what he couldn’t figure out.

How it related to the person they were trying to catch, or maybe why it was significant to the victims. Was it something about them he was trying to change? Did they not meet societal expectations of beauty, the supermodels on the front cover of Vogue, for example, and that was why he was punishing them? The trouble with that was that there was no ritualistic element to the crime and there probably would be if he was punishing them for something.

There was something missing.

At first he’d thought this might be biblical, a pound of flesh, gluttony. But it made no sense, none of it did, and the missing bits of skin didn’t always add up to a pound anyway, sometimes it was a lot more.

Everything about these crimes was seemingly random, the victims unconnected, none of them knew each other. The treatment of them was dispassionate and standoffish. The killer didn't care, he knew that much. He would use Catherine Martin in much the same way as he had the others. He would take what he needed and cast her aside, leaving her to rot in a culvert or a stream somewhere. If they were lucky they might catch her before she drifted away.

They needed Lecter and he needed Scully.

He just had to go and interview Ruth Martin first.


	39. Chapter 39

The labs had resulted in more fascinating discoveries and a possible fingerprint match for their Clay victim: Rebecca Wheatley, 22, a college student from Charleston. They were just waiting to confirm it and for someone in her family to come and identify the body and they could give her the respectful burial she deserved.

If truth be told Rebecca Wheatley was the reason why she kept going down there. Yes she wanted to find the evidence that would catch the guy but she also wanted to make sure she was being looked after properly, that when it came time for the family to view their loved one as a corpse Rebecca not only looked presentable but that the horrors she’d endured didn’t show.

She’d had to use every bit of her training not to identify, not to imagine herself in the shoes of the victim, and so far it’d worked but things were creeping in and she’d found herself missing Mulder even more. The routine of her classes didn’t help so she ran too many laps to compensate and swam so hard and fast she fell into bed each night exhausted. She swan until she thought about the floaters, those poor women, and then she didn’t want the water on her anymore. Water made her nauseous.

She'd checked her messages more times than she could count too, hoping. Hoping for what she didn’t know. It occurred to her then, as it had on a few other occasions in her life, that a seismic shift had taken place in her life and it’d happened in a small town in West Virginia. The person she was today was not the same person as two weeks ago. The Mulder stuff aside, she felt harder around the edges, she smiled less, she had fitful and restless sleep, she lay awake worrying in the morning about cabbage rose wallpaper and wound patterns, things were bothering her that shouldn’t, she thought of those women too much, she felt… Mulder. He’d probably have a word for what she was feeling. He seemed to know everything. He’d help. He’d know how to scrub it all from her skin. She didn’t usually pine over people but she missed him.

Later on, as she was sitting in her dorm writing up her notes from a two hour lecture on The Good-Faith Warrant Exception to the Exclusionary Rule in Search and Seizure, and listening to Reyes and Teller testing each other on it.

“The good-faith exception applies when officers conduct a search or seizure with ‘objectively reasonable reliance’ on, for example, a warrant that is not obviously invalid but that a judicial magistrate should not have signed,” said Reyes.

“Good,” replied Teller. “So what are the three exceptions to the Exclusionary Rule?”

Reyes sighed, took a one second look at her book, and answered, “The three exceptions to the Exclusionary Rule are attenuation of the taint, independent source and inevitable discovery.” When she was told that was correct she breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“I’m glad you two know what this stuff is because to me it sounds like Japanese,” Scully laughed self deprecatingly.

It wasn’t that bad, she perfectly knew this stuff, but since someone had overheard a conversation she’d had with Reyes earlier about her lab findings and had made an obscene gesture that implied she was getting this work because of sexual favours she’d decided to stay under the radar. Whereas before she’d been rather miffed about not having been asked to go to Tennessee for Catherine Martin’s disappearance she was kind of glad of it now. She could only imagine the gossip if she’d gone along and her face had been on the news.

Teller put her book down to adjust her buoyant bob and with hairpins between her teeth garbled out, “Oh I’m sure you’ll do fine on the test Scully, you’re like superbrain. In fact I’m actually thinking of asking you to dress up as me and sit this test so I actually pass it!”

They all laughed, at least amongst some of her peers she was still liked and the jealousy wasn’t turning everybody bitter. It was actually refreshing.

“In fact,” Teller was saying. “Maybe you could tell us what exactly is attenuation of the taint, it sounds kind of rude!”

Scully laughed and she was about to reply that it had something to do with illegal police activity and whether or not evidence has become so reduced in value because of the activity that it serves no legitimate purpose to suppress it, however someone was knocking on the door and she couldn’t get a word in.

“Come in!” Reyes shouted.

It more than surprised her when Mulder came in and she couldn’t help the smile she gave, even if she was still a little pissed off at his behaviour. He looked like he hadn’t slept much recently but otherwise he looked good, if awkward in his mannerisms as he fidgeted with his jacket and bag (which he soon dumped near the end of her bed).

“Hi,” she said softly as she stood up.

“Um, hi,” he replied, looking at her his heart beamed so much and he had to look away, that and he felt embarrassed about having ignored her. He looked around, taking in her room. Not much had changed since he’d last stayed in one, still the same cheap and crappy furniture and still the ugly red curtains and matching bedspreads. “Can we talk?”

She watched as both Reyes and Teller looked at him and then at her and she nodded, it was fine. Of course it was. She put her stuff away and cleared a space for him as they quickly made their leave. The door closed behind them and they stood awkwardly looking at each other for a moment before she broke the ice with, “You look like hell, where have you been?”

He smiled, “The Catherine Martin thing…”

“I saw you on the news.”

He nodded, “Yeah I just got back from speaking to her mother. Nice women, rather distraught. Understandable.” That was an understatement. The woman had howled for an hour before he could speak to her properly. He cleared his throat, “Listen, I um, wanted to…” the words fell away. She looked angry and he didn’t know what to say anyway though he was genuine in his apology. “Sorry.”

She sat down on the bed again, hugged a cushion. Was that all he had to say, really? It was quite inadequate. Nevertheless she patted the spot next to her and he sat gingerly, tentatively. “You haven’t been answering my calls, I thought…” She tried not to get teary eyed, tried to remain calm. “I’m so damn angry Mulder!” She looked up at him and he cupped her face in his hand. He looked at her solemnly as he brushed a feather light stroke against her lip as she spoke. “I needed you!”

“I know and I’m sorry. I’ve had some stuff going on and I let it get to me. I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you.” He moved his hand away and put it guiltily in his lap. “If it makes you feel any better I needed you too.”

“So why didn’t you come to me?” she accused.

“Because it’s complicated and I’m trying to protect you.” He looked at her again and hoped she could understand. She seemed to have sagged under the weight of everything and he only felt worse.

“From Lara Stone?”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised was an understatement. “You know about her, how?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“What does she have on you?”

He slumped back against the wall behind him, “You don’t want to know.”

She nodded, the look he was giving her told her it was more about her than him and she balked. She didn’t want to know right now though. She had enough on her plate. Being trashed in a crappy magazine was the least of her concerns. “Why did you come here then?”

He chuckled, allowed her to take his hand easily, “I missed you. I can’t stop thinking about you and I just needed some decent company.”

It was enough to make her smile, though not forgiven totally she let him know she was moving in that direction, “Has anyone ever told you that you have shitty communication skills.”

“Funnily enough, yes. Only everyone I meet.” He raised her hand to his lips and tapped a kiss to her knuckles as she laughed. “I am sorry.”

She knew. “How’s the case going?”

“Good actually, thanks to your lab efforts. We have the Clay victim identified, and we matched the cocoon in her throat to the one we found in Raspail's. We’re also speaking to Raspail’s former lovers, though I think that one’ll be a bust, and the import/export list for exotic insect breeders is being narrowed down.”

“Well, it wasn’t just me. I only helped.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve been a real help, you seem to have given forensics the kick up the ass they needed.” He planted a kiss to her inner wrist and she sucked in a breath. Interesting, he thought, how many erogenous zones does she actually have? Still, as much as he'd love to find out, he wasn’t here for that and it didn’t seem right so he gave her her hand back. “We’re making the deal with Lecter,” he told her matter of factly. “I spoke to Skinner about it.”

That pleased her. “Are you sure Catherine Martin is one of Bill’s?” 

“All of the victims seem to be of a certain type and seem to be targeted due to their size and she fits the victim profile.”

“When are you seeing Lecter?” She hoped he'd let her come along.

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

He let out a long breath and explained, “It’s not a good idea. Not for my mental health.” He shrugged trying to make it appear not as serious as they both knew it was. “I’ve been having dreams, not sleeping well.”

She was immediately concerned and edged closer, “What kind of dreams?”

He let go of his own hand to rub his face, “It doesn’t matter.” At her stern look he relented, “I… usually when I profile I see things, imagine things, horrible things.”

“As the perpetrator?”

“No, as an outsider, an observer but now I see myself in a hole in the ground.” He knew it was stupid and tried to laugh it off. He told her about the incident on the farm and how he was probably making an association.

She agreed, but also added, “Maybe you’re also identifying because of Lecter, because of how close you both are to this case and, Mulder, it’s not that long since you were injured yourself. It’s only natural to identify with those in a position of peril.”

She was probably right. He drew her into a hug and kissed the top of her head, smiling when she tucked her legs up and shaped her body to his. “You’re not doing that though are you?” he asked, concerned. Thankfully he felt her shake her head against his side.

“No but I have a sudden hatred of water.”

“The floaters?”

“Hmmm,” she sounded out tiredly. “I swim a lot but it gets too much as I start to think about the women lying there in those ditches.”

He pushed her slightly away to look at her, to examine her face. “You’re not compartmentalising it?”

She shrugged. “The academy teaches you to compartmentalize, to deal with conflicting internal standpoints simultaneously by isolating and focusing on difficult issues separately and in different categories…”

“Right, it’s supposed to help avoid cognitive dissonance, mental discomfort, so you aren’t left feeling vulnerable in a stressful and difficult environment.”

“Yeah, but for the first time I’m realising what a bunch of bullshit it all is.”

He kissed her head again. “You need to find a way, Scully.”

“Before I get a reputation as weak?”

“Not in my eyes.”

“No?”

“Never.”

He tilted her head up with his index finger and brushed his lips tenderly across hers. He pulled away, “The way I deal with it. Or at least try to,” he murmured, still close to her, “is through exercise. I run, sometimes for miles and miles and miles.” Other times he had sex.

He kissed her again and couldn’t help swiping his tongue against hers as she opened up to him. Need and want were quickly combining towards an inevitable so he pulled away, rested his forehead against hers as she panted and pouted.

“I guess nothing can really prepare you for it.”

“Because it’s impossible to imagine.” And if his hunch played off then it was about to get even more difficult. “Even in less violent circumstances death forces us to confront our own mortality, to look at ourselves in a way that might be uncomfortable, but death isn’t taboo or unnatural…”

"I know that Mulder, as a doctor. It’s one of the most natural things there is.”

He smiled. “Then you know it’s best to approach it from that standpoint.” He sighed, looked into her wet eyes, her beautiful blue orbs. “Have you ever heard of something called post-traumatic growth?” She shook her head so he explained, “It’s the idea that people can grow psychologically through traumatic experiences. Thinking about the fact that we will die may be hard, but according to the theory it could also help us to get stronger psychologically.”

“Right. How does it work for Rebecca Wheatley?”

“You try and think of the person she was and would’ve been. You think of her as a person who had hopes, dreams and a good life, not as the shell of the girl you saw in the morgue. You think of how you can help her. You see her, not the person who did despicable things to her. You don’t let them win.” He pulled her tighter, and continued, “The existential anxiety that comes from what happened to her can be somewhat rebuffed with a positive worldview or your own sense of self-esteem and by thinking of what you can do to stop it happening to someone else.”

Looking up at him she laughed, “So you’re basically saying that compartmentalisation is a load of crap.”

He couldn’t help agreeing, “On its own.” He pulled away and turned properly to face her. “Of course, if you’re really struggling, you could always come round to mine and I’ll be your shoulder to cry on.” 

He wiggled his eyebrows and she smiled. “I bet. Is that offer open for tonight?”

“On a school night? That’s a bit rebellious.”

“Well for once I’m open to admitting that I do have issues with that.”

“As much as I would love to get reacquainted with you I actually have to go and talk to Skinner.”

She wondered if it was the Colton thing. “Why did you shove Colton?”

“He’s an asshole,” he replied matter of factly. “He’s leaking stuff to the press.”

Her eyes went wide. “Seriously?” She was astonished, though now she understood why he was asking about the case so much and why there were so many details in Tattle... “Have you told Skinner?”

“Not yet, I want to let the little rat hang himself a little more.” Rather trickily he was setting Colton up. Any information he passed to Lara Stone was coming through a third party, someone he was instructing to give the information to Colton. Colton was in trouble anyway, most likely he’d be out of a job because of what he’d already done, so shortening the rope around his neck wasn’t going to make much difference to that outcome. Besides, there was no way he was walking into any trap Stone was setting, he didn’t want the information traced back to him. He wasn’t that stupid. “I’d appreciate you not saying anything either.”

She couldn’t think. How could Colton do that! “No, of course,” she said eventually.

“Thank you. There’s something else I’d like you to do?”

“Oh?”

“Would you go and speak to Lecter again? He trusts you now and I rather think he likes you.”

“My badge ran out.”

Reaching into his inner pocket he pulled another one out and held it aloft. “I had to speak personally to Paul Krendler, the Deputy Assistant Attorney General, and while he’s not exactly happy with you still being involved he is willing to let you speak to Lecter again since Lecter offered you the deal.”

She took it and examined it, this one actually had her picture in and lasted for a whole month. “I should send him my thanks.”

He raised his eyebrow at her. “My advice is to stay away from Paul Krendler. He can be a little, shall we say, self serving.” He cleared his throat, “It’s nothing to worry about, you just need to be aware.”

In other words if it all went wrong and Catherine Martin died she’d be the fall guy. She sank down a little on the bed. She took it on board though. She knew Krendler’s type. Everything was his idea until it went wrong. “What do I say to Lecter?”

“Whatever it takes.” Mulder lent down and picked a file out of his bag. “Catherine Martin has been missing for a number of days now, we don’t think it’ll be much longer before he kills her. We have to exhaust every available avenue and if that means playing up to Lecter’s dog and pony show then so be it. Go back in and offer him what he wants.”

“In exchange for Buffalo Bill?”

“In exchange for Buffalo Bill,” he repeated.

“Isn’t there a chance he could be toying with us?”

“I’ve thought about it, and he does like to toy with people, a scalp like a Senator would be a big coup for someone like him, but Krandler and the justice department is willing to do whatever it takes.” The unspoken line being that Krendler was willing to do whatever it took for glory and personal advancement. “If you’re certain Lecter will deal then deal.”

She wouldn’t hesitate. Dealing with Lecter had been her preference since he’d mentioned providing a full profile. “I think he will, I think he’s serious about helping.” She remembered his demands, “In exchange for a transfer to a new prison, one with a view: water, trees.” She wondered if it could even be done though and asked, “Is that even possible?”

Mulder shook his head. “Its state to federal jurisdiction we’re dealing with here. We could do it eventually but right now? Not a chance. We simply don’t have the time to sort out the clearances.”

“So you want me to convince him the deal is real?” More lies. At least they were being honest this time, though conversely here, perhaps it might’ve been better if she didn’t know.

“Yes, I’m sure you can convince him the deal’s already in place.”

She looked at the file. “That’ll back me up?”

“All the correct paperwork is there, it’s just a load of shit. However, for all intents and purposes, and for Lecter, it’s a real deal.”

She nodded and then picked it up. “Then I’ll try.” She opened it and pulled out the paper, it was indeed what he said it was. “But wouldn't this have more weight coming from the Senator herself?”

He hesitated, “She doesn't know what we're up to and we can't afford to let her find out. At her surprised look he continued, “She's the mother, Scully. She can't possibly comprehend what Lecter is, who he is and the damage he could do. She'd make the mistake of pleading with him. Begging him. He'd feast on her pain till the last second of that girl's life.”

“And I assume Chilton has been kept out of the loop?”

“We can't trust Frederick Chilton, either. He's greedy and ambitious. If he knew about Lecter's link to Bill, he'd go straight to the newspapers.”

She tucked everything away in her bag. “Ok, I think I can do this.” She said it more to convince herself. Mulder got up to leave and she grabbed his hand. “You’ll stay in touch?”

He smiled, leant down to kiss her hard on the lips and replied, “You try keeping me away.”


	40. Chapter 40

Scully was making so many trips up to Baltimore she was starting to get rather acquainted with the place, it felt familiar, nice. She was even starting to look past the ghastly Gothic terrors of the asylum and appreciate the architecture of the city, it’s classical lines, the ornate decorations, the turrets and flying buttresses on some of the older churches and buildings. It was a shame she didn’t have the time to explore the city properly as there were a few churches she'd like to check out.

If Mulder were here with her she’d take him to dinner, a nice dinner, not take out, and spend some quality time getting to know each other. She thought they needed it, they had things to work on. Just them. No FBI. No case. Though she didn’t think they were quite at the stage where she would invite him round to meet her parents her feelings were definitely deep enough to consider it in the future.

It was a shame he wasn’t here now as she’d much preferred his company over Chilton’s who was currently falling into step behind her and trying desperately to stop her journey down to see Lecter. He was even pointing an expensive, and very shiny, gold pen at her accusingly. She rather found it amusing given that he was about as threatening as Barney the Dinosaur. Chilton was oily, not scary.

“As I was saying Miss Scully, what you’re doing is coming into my hospital to conduct an interview and refusing to share information with me. For the third time!” He smiled smugly, “Oh yes, I know about your late night visit here with Agent Mulder.”

She didn’t care and she only hoped her expression conveyed that. She carried on down the stairs. “Dr. Chilton, as I told you upstairs, this is just a routine follow-up.”

“He’s my patient, I have rights!” he shouted snottily.

She stopped and turned to face him angrily, just as he waved the pen under the tip of her nose. He had no rights and he couldn’t stop her seeing Lecter not as an FBI Agent and certainly not as a doctor. “Dr Chilton I can do this with or without your cooperation but if you do try and stop me here now it will go one file with the justice department.”

She turned to leave but as she did so he grabbed her arm and squeezed. She tried to wrest her arm away but he was stronger and she was forced to listen to him as he said, “I’m not just some turnkey, here at your beck and call. These are patients and I am a professional, a doctor, I can help you with Lecter.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She might not be able to push back physically but she certainly could verbally, and with authority. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a card, “I’m acting on instruction, Dr. Chilton.” She gave him the card and suggested, “This is the US Attorney General’s number. Now please, either discuss this with him or let me do my job. Understand?”

He let her go immediately and she tried not to flinch or react, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She really wanted to rub the spot he’d been squeezing as it hurt. She thought she saw steam coming out of his ears as she descended the stairs again.

“Well, I will call this number,” he called after her. “But, Agent Scully!” She turned to look up at him and he added, “I have tickets to Holiday on Ice if you’d care to join me?”

She stared at him with pity and distaste before walking on. She'd laugh if it wasn't so tragic. She could tell he was full of frustration and hostility as he was clicking his pen furiously. She didn’t give him another look and silently hoped she never set eyes on him again as she rubbed her arm (once she was out of his sight).

She hurried to Lecter’s cell, though didn’t run as she was conscious of his ability to smell her, and she knew he'd associate sweat with fear and try and claim she was frightened when she wasn't. She greeted him politely when she reached him.

“No Agent Mulder today I see.”

Well hello to you too she thought. As she took off her coat and took up the seat that was out for her she shook her head. “Agent Mulder is busy with other matters.”

Lecter looked up from his bed where he was languidly sketching something with charcoal on butcher paper. He was using his own forearm as a model, she didn’t ask what exactly he was drawing. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She did note that his belongings had been restored and his cell was in a better state than the last time she'd visited, even the television had been taken away.

“Catherine Martin?”

“Yes.”

He made no movement. He seemed to think for a long time. If she wasn’t already used to it she’d wonder if he’d died or had a stroke. “Wouldn’t you say, Dr. Scully, that for a United States Senator, you’re an odd choice of messenger?”

She raised an eyebrow, “I was your choice, Dr. Lecter. You chose to speak to me. Would you prefer someone else now? Or perhaps you don't think you can help us now.”

“That is both impudent and untrue... now tell me how you felt when you viewed Billy's latest effort?” After a beat he smiled and put his work aside. “Or should I say, ‘next-to-last?”

“From a personal or professional standpoint?”

“Both.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, I was shocked by the level of violence. It felt like overkill.”

“You look tired. You think about them in your sleep? Do you imagine yourself in their place?”

“No.” What to tell him? How much? It was a quandary she still couldn’t reconcile. She decided not to go into too many details but give him just enough. “I see them but I don’t identify with them.” She busied herself with her bag and pulled out the offer, along with all the heavy case files. “Professionally, and in looking at the damage Bill inflicts on the victims I would go along with Agent Mulder’s profile assessment and class him as a sadist. Buffalo Bill might not care for his victims, he might not need them for anything other than their skin, but I think he enjoys the act of killing.” She put the file on her lap and admitted, “I think he’s a textbook case, at least on that front.”

He turned to face her, it felt strangely intimate, like two friends chatting, and then got up to stand and lean against the wall to her right, near his letterbox sliding tray, when he noticed the file on her lap. She’d never seen anyone move so smoothly before. “Life’s too short for slippery books Dr. Scully. Typhoid and swans come from the same God.”

She had no time for Lecter’s horrible theology, she knew from Mulder's file that he collected articles on church collapses, but she felt she had to indulge him. “By that argument we’re all as bad as Buffalo Bill, no? Given that we’re greeted in God’s image.”

“Now you’re catching on.” He looked impressed. “Killing must feel good for God in that sense, since he’s always doing it. He must love it.”

“Maybe so, but God gave us free will, Sir.”

“But he could stop it?”

“I have no answer to that. It doesn’t make believing any less easy and the question isn’t new, it’s a question that’s been asked for a very long time.”

“How long, O Lord, must I call for help? But you do not listen! ‘Violence is everywhere!’ I cry, but you do not come to save. Must I forever see these evil deeds? Why must I watch all this misery?”

“Habakkuk? I believe Job had a similar complaint.”

He looked impressed as he said, “Yes, you’re a good student aren’t you? Of the FBI and of the church, though you claim you no longer believe.”

“I don’t think I said anything on that front.”

“No, but it showed all over your face.”

She blushed and he caught it because he smiled. “Does Agent Mulder give you the answers you seek or does he just take you into his bed?” She didn’t reply. He continued, “Has he tamed you, or you him?” She didn’t answer. “Well I must say you’re a lot better than his wife.”

“I don’t know anything about her.” She wasn’t interested and she wasn’t likely to come back anyway so it didn't matter.

“Diana, nice girl, intelligent, tall and sinewy, hips made for childbirth and breasts made for suckling, has the makings of a good Soccer Mom,” he drawled out the last two words in a faux American accent. Watching her like a hawk, looking for a way in he found it when he said, “I can tell you hate her already.”

“I have no opinion…”

“No, and yet you still seethe under that fine breeding of yours, are you jealous?”

She chuckled, “No.” Maybe a little. Not because of Diana herself, she had no real concept of the woman beyond tidbits, and what Lecter was saying, or even that she was married to Mulder, something she’d never contemplated, but because, “She’s seen Mulder at his best though.”

Lecter wagged his finger, as if he was telling her to stop being so hard on herself, “I don’t believe she has. I think you will though.” He even smiled at her properly. It was most unnerving. “Now, tell me, Miss West Virginia…”

“Her name is Rebecca Wheatley.”

He ignored her. “Was she a large girl?”

“Yes.”

“Big in the hips, roomy?”

“They all were. They all fit the victim profile Agent Mulder has drawn up.”

He hummed in approval, seemingly pleased. “What else?”

She shifted uncomfortably, remembering pulling out that horrible little beast from Rebecca’s throat. “She had an insect deliberately inserted in her throat. That hasn't been made public yet. We don't know what it means.”

He was intrigued, “Was it a butterfly?

She paused, staring at him. She wasn’t suspicious, nothing surprised her about him anymore, but she was always interested. “A moth actually. How did you predict that?”

He wasn’t content to give her any answers yet. “I’m waiting for your offer, Dr Scully. Enchant me with the efforts of your labour.”

She looked down at her papers, collecting her thoughts about how best to approach this. She looked at him again evenly and decided that the best way to really sell it was by showing enthusiasm, it would make it seem real and he would expect her to be proud of the work she’d done.

She stood up and smiled, clutching the material tightly, and with a happy tone to her voice began, “If you help us find Buffalo Bill, in time to save Catherine Martin, the Senator promises you a transfer to the V.A. hospital at Oneida Park, New York, with a view of the woods nearby. Maximum security still applies, but you’d have reasonable access to books.” He was silent, listening intently but amused, like he was weighing the truth of it up. She almost faltered but caught herself, grinned and moved closer, shuffled her papers to reveal a map and pressed it to his glass wall, “Best of all, though, one week a year you'd get to leave the hospital and go, here, Plum Island. Every afternoon of that week you can walk on the beach or swim in the ocean for up to one hour.” She paused to add, “Under SWAT team surveillance, of course,” and shrugged.

She put the papers in his food tray and quickly removed her hands. He looked at them in a neutral fashion. Nodding at the tray she said, “A copy of the Buffalo Bill case file, Senator Martin’s terms. Her offer is final and non-negotiable. If Catherine dies...” she slid the tray back hard, “you get nothing.”

He looked down at the papers, no hint of emotion, and without touching them sneered, “‘Plum Island Animal Disease Research Center.’ Sounds charming.”

“That’s just part of the island, it has a very nice beach.” From what she’d heard anyway. She continued trying to convince him the deal was worthwhile. “Terns nest there.” He was calculating again and she braced herself for his next words.

He was unimpressed. He touched his red tongue to his red lips in thought. “Terns, Dr Scully. If I help you it will be ‘turns’ with us too. Quid pro quo I tell you things, you tell me things. Not about this case though, about yourself. Yes or no?”

She was silent for the longest moment, her brain was screaming at her ‘no!’. She somehow knew he’d be aloof to the formal deal on its own, she knew that if this was going to work he’d insist on trading pieces of information. 

“Yes or no, Dr Scully. Catherine is waiting. Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

She realised how close they were standing and she was glad of the glass. Her mouth betrayed her, “Go, Doctor.”

“What’s your worst memory of childhood?” 

She hesitated, she had so many: Bill Jr threatening her pets and the accidental bunny killing, her Sunday School teacher’s death, her father constantly leaving to go to sea and having to comfort her mother until she stopped crying only to be shouted at (before things returned to normal the next day once her mother had gotten over her father’s departure). She had a happy childhood, for the majority of it, but the death of her Sunday School teacher had certainly hit her the hardest.

“The death of my Sunday School teacher, he was a good friend, a guiding light when I was going through a difficult time at home.”

“Tell me. Don’t lie or I’ll know.”

She sighed. She couldn’t bear the feverish excitement in his eyes, he looked like a ravenous vulture. She looked past him, hesitating again, “I didn’t feel that I could talk to my parents about anything, I could with him. He called me Scout. It was a real shock when he died, I couldn’t reconcile it in my head for the longest time.”

“Did you love each other, was he killed because he interfered with you and too many others, did he fuck you Dr Scully?”

She looked at him, not bothering to hide her disgust, “He wasn’t like that, not at all. He was nothing but kind to me.” Struggling to get her emotions back in check she still managed to put him straight, “He ran a halfway house that had a 'no drugs' policy. One of the borders there broke the rules and brought drugs into the building, he took them away and paid with his life. They shot him as he was doing his gardening.”

“Was he killed outright?”

“No. He tried to call for help, he tried to get inside, and they shot him again, in the head.” She took a deep breath, trying not to imagine it, trying not to get upset. She focused on his smile, how he always beamed at her when he saw her. “He was a strong man, godly, he tried his best.” She shrugged, “I still think about him.”

“You’re very frank, Dr Scully. It would be quite something to know you in private.”

So you can cut me the way you cut Mulder? she thought and hid a grimace. “Quid pro quo, Doctor.”

“The significance of the moth is change. Do you know what an imago is?” 

Change. Mulder had said exactly that. Eerily she wondered how closely he could look into the hearts and heads of the people he chased. She shook her head and then remembered, “It’s a winged insect.”

“Entomologically speaking it’s the final and fully developed adult stage of an insect, typically winged. But it has another meaning.” He smiled, “Speak to Agent Mulder.” He tipped his head in an odd quirk, like he was reminiscing about their times together, and carried on, “Caterpillar into cocoon into beauty. Billy wants to change, too, Dr Scully. But there's the problem of his size, you see. Even if he were a woman, he'd have to be a big one..."

She was puzzled. None of what he was saying made any sense. She knew from her own experience as a doctor that already Buffalo Bill did not meet the criteria of transsexualism. “Dr. Lecter, there's no correlation in the literature between transsexualism and violence. Transsexuals are very passive, gentle types…”

“Clever girl. You're so close to the way you're going to catch him, do you realize that?”

“No. Tell me why.”

“What happened next?” She dropped her gaze and he snarked, “I don't imagine the answer's on those second-rate shoes, Dr Scully.”

“I ran away from home. It was stupid.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went to my grandmother’s house. They lived next to a farm up in the north of Maryland. I took a train and hitchhiked cross country.”

“That was brave. A cattle ranch?”

“No, horses and sheep mostly.”

“How long were you there for?”

“Not long, my parents beat me to it. I was glad to leave, I hated it there.” There were so many awful sounds, she hadn’t been able to sleep. It’d frightened her.

“How did your parents react?”

“They were crying. I’ve never seen them so upset either before or since.” It’d shocked her. She didn’t do anything like that again. Even her acceptance letter into the FBI hadn’t upset that much, though it was probably close.

“He didn’t beat you?”

“No, my father didn’t ever punish us like that. He’s a good man. Stern but good." She sucked in a breath, emotionally she was exhausted. "Quid pro quo Doctor.”

“Billy's not a real transsexual. He tries to be. He's tried a lot of things, I expect.”

“You said, I was very close to the way we'd catch him, what did you mean?”

“There are three major centers for transsexual surgery: Johns Hopkins, the University of Minnesota, and Columbus Medical center. I wouldn't be surprised if Billy has applied for sex reassignment at one or all of them, and been rejected.”

“On what basis would they reject him?”

“Look for severe childhood disturbances associated with violence. Our Billy wasn’t born a criminal, Dr Scully. He was made one through years of systematic abuse. Billy hates his own identity, you see and he thinks that makes him a transsexual but his pathology is a thousand times more savage and more terrifying.”

“How would he test?”

Suddenly he snarled loudly and stretched. She took a sharp step backwards before he grabbed her, impossible, she knew. He smiled, turning his movement into a deliberate and elaborate yawn, and gathering the papers from his tray.

“That’s enough, I think. Happy hunting.”

She was shaken by his sudden and abrupt end to the meeting but nodded.

As she left, she knew she would go and see Mulder. It was late and she didn’t fancy the longer drive back to Quantico in rush hour traffic.

Far above her another problem was brewing in the shape of Dr Chilton who was listening into their private conversation.


	41. Chapter 41

In an anonymous house, in an every-day, nondescript, kind of suburb, one that most people would aspire to live in, the killer known only as Buffalo Bill cooed to his collection of winged devils and placed some fresh honeycomb on the floor of their caged room, it was only the best for them, and after enjoying the soft rush of air, and the feel of their fur against his face, as they all rushed as one to get at the food, he climbed out and closed the door.

For the longest time he stood watching with a smile on his face, watched as they fed and enjoyed themselves on the sweet food source. He didn’t like caging them, at one point he’d had them free in the house but a few had got free and the neighbours had complained so, keen not to draw attention to himself, he’d built a special cage that took up most of a room. They could fly and crawl and grow and mate and feast to their heart's content. They were happy. He was happy. It was symbiotic.

In the corner a hatchling wiggled tortuously free of its cocoon and clung, trembling and damp, to a sprig of deadly nightshade. He clapped his hands like a new father and whispered words of encouragement as it spread its wings, testing them out, and took its first flight. He listened to the slow pumping of its wings amongst the others and delighted when it landed assuredly and started suckling, imitating his new friends in their feeding routine. It fit right in. It pleased him immensely.

But he had work to do and so he reluctantly left them their food. He made sure to leave the light on for their play time though and closed the main door behind him. His trek through the dimly-lit warren of the cellar was long and he occasionally turned corners or skirted dark openings of passages he didn’t use anymore. He liked this part of the house the most. It was where he could be himself. Upstairs was pretty ordinary, if anyone came in they’d probably compliment him on the decor (though he hadn’t chosen any of it), but down here was his playground and he could express his personality.

He moved left and into a small chamber that housed his preparation area: a stainless steel table, a big sink, jars of chemicals and neat racks of gleaming, newly sharpened chef's knives, top of the range. He’d spoken to countless butchers to ascertain which was the best for removing the skin of large deer carcasses and they’d been only too happy to help. Beyond that was a larger space where he kept his ladies, his mannequins. All perfect, all adorned in various items of designer clothing. It was clothing he’d had to steal and some of it was knockoff stuff that he’d made himself, though there were a few choice items he’d picked out in various stores. It was all beautiful and he couldn’t wait to wear it.

It was in this room he picked out a pattern book and began flicking through the pages. He’d been taught to sew in prison, it was that or motor mechanics. He had no interest in cars but he did have an interest in looking good and in being the best version of himself. He tapped a page, a beautiful floor length hooded gown. It would need a few adjustments to fit the style he liked and his size, and he would turn the skirt into pant legs, but otherwise it was exactly what he was looking for for his hides. A suit.

He took it with him and entered his real workshop, his sewing room with the special maroon armoire, with its Chinese lacquer, that he kept his most prized pieces of clothing. The items he’d made with the help of his captives. He placed the book on the table next to his sewing machine and flicked the switch to turn it on. He bent down and tickled Precious behind the ear as she slept and sat. His garment would be the best he’d ever produced.

In the distance he heard It in the well screaming again. It was funny to him. It lightened his soul.

He pressed play on his tape player to drown her out though as he needed to concentrate, he couldn’t put a stitch wrong in this piece. He tucked his kimono in and sat down. He worked furiously, the foot of the machine zipping through expertly and he made quick work. He even started humming along to the tune, to the pounding horses. It was a good song, he’d play it again and again and again. He stopped only long enough to think about needing a real human hair piece. Looking at the one to his left he decided it wasn’t good enough any more. The blond hair of his second victim had deteriorated too much, he hadn’t preserved it properly. He knew better now. ‘It’ in the other room had nice hair, maybe he could use her scalp after he’d taken her hide. It was a serious consideration.

Next to him his little dog stirred, yawned, stretched and shook its legs out from the cramp of sleep and trotted around the room begging for attention. Receiving none, she knew when Master was busy on his machine he couldn’t be disturbed, so scurried out of the room, following the sounds of the screams. The sounds Precious was all too used to.

Panting happily and picking up scents the dog followed the same path her master had just come from, stopping occasionally to lick and sniff at things. The dog sniffed at the moth door, hoping for a snack, hoping to chase them around a little but it was closed so she moved on. Eventually she reached the pit and sniffed her way to the edge, wagging her tail and, looking over the precipice, she barked all too happily. Imitating her owner but still wanting the friendship of this strange creature who begged for it.

Far down below Catherine Martin looked up at the dog in curiosity and stopped her now hoarse screaming. A thought beginning to form in her head she didn’t quite smile but knew that if she was ever going to get out of here she just might have to do it herself and that little dog might just be her answer.


	42. Chapter 42

By the time she reached Mulder’s apartment she was tired, hungry and in need of a shoulder to cry on. Lecter had left her feeling more exhausted than any run or swim session she'd had and it would be nice to clear her head and mend her body. She knocked loudly on his apartment door and smiled as he opened it.

“Hi,” she offered breezily while looking him up and down. He was wearing a pair of grey briefs and a white dress shirt barely buttoned up and her heart beat a little faster and she bit her lip.

He raised his eyebrows but smiled broadly. “Scully! I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow.”

She looked behind her, down the long corridor and towards the elevator, suddenly feeling unsure. “If this is a bad time?”

He chuckled, “Not at all, come in. Just surprised that’s all. I know how tiring Lecter is, I just thought you might’ve booked a hotel room.” He emphasised how happy he was by grabbing her wrist and pulling her inside playfully. Door closed behind them he gave her a quaint kiss to her cheek and then took her coat and bag. “You want something to eat? I have pizza, salad and fries on the coffee table.”

She nodded, replying, “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” as she took in his apartment. It was dark but he soon snapped on some lights and fussed with making it a bit more welcoming by tidying up some papers and books he had lying around, there were files everywhere. Overall, there wasn’t much to the place really but it was warm, the art was funky but interesting, there were a few plants he hadn’t managed to kill as well as a fish tank with a load of happily swimming Mollies bobbing around. All in all it was a typical bachelor pad, any trace of a woman’s touch had long been scrubbed away. Or maybe this was how they lived together, she wasn’t sure and grizzled at the idea of ‘Soccer mom’ still being present so she decided this was all him and that was fine by her. 

“It’s nice,” she muttered as she had a look in the sparse but tidy kitchen, it seemed to be the cleanest bit of this place and that pleased her. Not because she had any interest in being the next Martha Steward but because she didn’t want a tummy bug from using his dishes and cutlery. She turned to look at him, he’d found a place to sit on the sofa and was watching her with an amused expression. “What?”

“Nothing!” he laughed, reaching for a slice of pizza and putting it on a plate for her. When she raised an eyebrow he expounded, “It’s just funny watching you.”

She wasn’t so sure about that but smiled anyway because she’d much rather be under his intense gaze than anyone else’s. She took his offered slice and sat down next to him, eating it so quickly she was soon eating another and wolfing down the majority of the fries. “Sorry, but I’m starving.”

“Fine by me, I've already eaten 3 slices. You gonna tell me how you got on with Hannibal the Cannibal?”

“I’m working up to it,” she answered around a mouthful of food. “You know you were right about the moth signifying change, he had the same idea,” she said after she’d swallowed. She quickly told him all of what had happened. “He also mentioned something called ‘imago’ and said I should speak to you about it.”

It wasn’t a word he’d heard in a while but it was typical double speak from Lecter. “You mean besides the entomological significance?” She nodded so he explained, “It’s a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a parent buried in the subconscious from infancy and bound with infantile affect. The unconscious idealized mental image of someone is supposed to influence a person’s behaviour.”

“Right, kind of how an image of Barney the Dinosaur will drive someone insane,” she giggled, wiping her hands.

“Sure if one of your parent’s looks like Barney the Dinosaur.” He ate the last of the fries before she stole them. “Your father doesn’t look like Barney does he Scully?”

“No, you’re safe with me.” She patted his warm leg affectionately. It didn’t go unnoticed. “So I’m confused by what Lecter was saying about change, that our suspect wants to be something else but he’s not a transsexual.”

“I would agree with that. Transsexuals are passive and violence and destructive aberrant behavior are not statistical correlatives of transsexualism but...” He picked up his notes from the floor and looked through them.

“What?”

“He might think he is, he might try to be but he’s not.” He showed her his working profile and pointed at his scruffy handwriting, “He’s clearly very angry at someone, clearly trying to escape someone, possibly himself, and he might think that the ultimate way to do that is by completely rejecting his current form. You know John Lee Roche thought of himself as The Mad Hatter and Francis Dolarhyde wanted to be a Dragon and believed that by subjecting his victims to a process called ‘changing’ it would help him ‘become’ the Great Red Dragon of Blake’s painting. It’s a form of Dissociative Identity Disorder, you might have heard of it as Multiple Personality Disorder.” He paused in horror and frowned, he suddenly knew what Buffalo Bill was doing with his victims. He turned to look at Scully and said in shock, “Scully, I think he’s making himself a woman suit out of real girls, that’s why he takes the girls, that’s why he takes larger women, it gives him more material.”

Her eyes went wide and her stomach turned green. “Are you serious?” He certainly looked it. She was starting to retaste her pizza.

He nodded slowly as he contemplated it. He was shocked. How had he not seen this and connected the dots sooner? He flicked to the forensics and showed her photos of wound patterns, “Don’t they look like a tailors pattern cuts to you?”

She wasn’t sure. They could be, she supposed. She knew nothing about pattern cutting. Melissa made her own clothes, her mom was a great seamstress too, but she’d not been interested in learning about any of that stuff. “I’m not sure Mulder, It could be.” She offered an apology with her hands after putting the file on the coffee table.

He nodded, he expected that. He needed more proof. He needed to get a hold of some dress making supplies and was quickly excited by his discovery. “You don’t know anyone nearby with a sewing machine do you Scully?”

“My mom does, she has a sewing room,” she said, frowning. “Why?”

“You think I could meet her?” He cleared his throat, “You know, just as a colleague rather than as your um…” 

He rapidly pointed from himself to her and back again she couldn’t help smiling. She still didn’t know what they were doing but she kind of liked that it was undefined. “I can do that. I’ll just say you’re my field supervisor.” Which was kind of true.

“Great, when?”

He was eager but she was tired and in no mood. “In the morning.”

It was his turn to pout but he also had no desire to piss her family off by going through their stuff at 10 o’clock at night.

“Lecter said that we were close to the way we’d catch him, do you think this is what he meant?” she asked.

“Possibly.”

“Is there anything we can do in the meantime, a strategy we can think of?”

“Well you said Lecter had remarked that our suspect had probably been rejected for sex reassignment. We could check that out.”

“How?”

“We could contact the hospitals for a start.”

She wiped her fingers on a napkin and moved onto the salad. “On what basis would they reject him?”

He thought long and hard as this wasn’t his area of expertise. The only people that he’d come across seeking gender reassignment were few and far between and only when he was working towards getting his practise licence. From memory he said, “Having a criminal record I think. Unless the crime is harmless, and related to the gender-identity problem, then he’d be disqualified. He might have a record for cross-dressing somewhere, it’s only recently that some states have stopped arresting people for it.”

She hummed, “Because of Stonewall?”

He nodded, “And other movements. I have a friend who was arrested in New York for wearing pants and a shirt recently.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, it’s called the three-piece law. In some places if you wear fewer than three items of clothing of you supposed gender, you're subject to arrest and incarceration on charges of ‘sexual deviancy.’” They both shook their heads angrily. “Shockingly some states still have variations of it.” He took her offered forkful of salad and around it he finished with, “If Bill lied successfully about a serious criminal record, then the personality inventories would get him."

“How would he show up on the diagnostics?" she asked, withdrawing her fork from his mouth. “Do you know the procedure for testing male applicants for transsexual surgery?"

“No. It’s been a while since I had to look at it.” He swallowed, eyeing her as she removed her boots and wiggled her toes. He wondered when he should tell her he had no suitable bed for them to sleep in as clearly she was intending on staying over, which he welcomed and certainly didn’t mind, it’s just his bed was his marital bed and he didn't like it. He picked up her left foot and started massaging it, she resisted for a fraction of a second but then turned towards him more and gasped. He loved her sounds so carried on. “But I would think the regimen would include the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale, House-Tree-Person, Rorschach, Drawing of Self-Concept, Thematic Apperception, MMPI of course, and a couple of others, the Jenkins, I think, that NYU developed.”

“That’s good,” she said squeakily as he hit a sensitive spot. It felt so good. Lecter was right about one thing: she had crappy shoes and tomorrow she was going to treat herself to something nice. Right now though if Mulder kept up his hypnotic motion on her arch she was going to turn into a puddle. “So we’re looking for a male who would fail all the known personality tests?”

“Uh huh.” He licked his lip as her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth fell open. Jesus, all he was doing was kneading her foot with the pads of his thumbs. It was starting to turn him on. “On the House-Tree-Person we’re looking for someone who didn't draw the female figure first. Male-to-female patients undergoing the process of change will almost always draw the female first and, typically, they pay a lot of attention to adornments on the females they draw. Their male figures are simple stereotypes, there are some notable exceptions where they draw Mr. America, but not much in between.”

She reclined and put her other foot in his lap and sighed luxuriously when he switched foot, she could get used to this. “So we should try to obtain a list of people rejected from all three gender-reassignment centers. Check first the ones rejected for criminal record… oh.” She closed her eyes again, “Just there Mulder.”

“Just here?” he repeated, stroking the ball of her foot. Her answering moan was all the reply he needed. “We should look at burglars, anyone who has tried to conceal a criminal record and we should look for severe childhood disturbances associated with violence. Possibly internment in childhood and if not that then abandonment. I think Lecter is right, I think our man could’ve been created by a system that did everything it could to fail him. See if there are pictures on file too, any house pictures he draws will have no happy future, no baby carriage, no pets, toys, flowers or sun, his trees will be frightful.” His hands moved from her foot to her ankle, his mind now totally elsewhere he still managed, “Our guy is puzzled and angry because they won't help him.”

“You know you’re good at this stuff.” She was still listening even if he was faltering. “How will he draw his females?”

“Hmmm?” Her spare foot was dangerously close to his hardening cock. He shook his head, remembered, “They’ll be crude because he doesn’t see women as something to be, he sees them as something to use. He’ll overcompensate somehow.” He didn’t know how. He shifted and her foot slipped onto him and he hissed. “Let’s talk about something else.”

She opened her eyes and smirked as she felt him under her toes, thick and lengthy. She needed him. “Something else, what do you have in mind?”

He licked his lips. He lifted her foot and placed a kiss to her inner ankle. “What do you think?”

“It’s a school night.”

He knew she was teasing, in more ways than one. Her other foot was still moving against him, slowly driving him insane. “Then you’ll just have to rebel and assume the consequences.”

“Dare I ask?” She thought back to their original conversation about kinks and pondered when he’d start showing his. “Or would those consequences scare me.”

He snorted, “You’re perfectly safe with me.” His proclivities were pretty straight laced for proclivities sake. “Mostly.”

“Where’s your bedroom?” she asked, intrigued, while looking round. There was a door behind him and she assumed it must be there.

“Ah, well, I don’t really have one.”

“Everybody has a bedroom Mulder.”

He blushed bright red. “Well, yeah, but I don’t use mine.”

He had to be kidding surely. “Where do you sleep?”

“Here.”

On the couch! How uncomfortable. She couldn’t really face fucking him where she’d just eaten. At least not tonight. “What’s through there?” she pointed.

“I haven’t used it since Diana left, too many bad memories.” He knew he probably sounded pathetic. The idea of inviting her round for a shoulder to cry on was turning out to be better than the reality. At least he could pretend to be normal in a hotel room. “It’s mostly a storage room now.”

She smiled sympathetically, extricated her foot and stood, holding her hand out to him. “How about we go make some new memories?”

He smiled at that and followed her lead.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still new to tags on A03 so if you spot an incorrect tag please point it out and I will fix it asap. Thanks!


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